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THE 


Gentleman  s  Magazine 

Volume  CCXCI. 
JULY  TO   DECEMBER    1901 


Processe  ^  Delectare      ^Sk?  ^»^     E  Pluribus  Unum 


£*/i/^*/  by  SYLVANUS  URBAN,  GentUman 


lontton 

CHATTO   &  WINDUS,    iii    ST   MARTIN'S   LANE 

1901 


li  ^  -'■-*•    -  ■■  - 


*>"-^ 


■^  ,  '  X  "<• 


CONTENTS  of  VOL.  CCXCI. 


[Alfred,  Ad  Old-English  Hallad  of.     By  J.  J.  Elus        ,        ,        »  ^^l 

lAmatrair  Pedigree -Monger,  Tht     Ry  P.  Evaks  Lewin         ,       ,  339 

lAmbassadors,  Tales  of.     By  GEORCtANA  Hill       ....  462 

'  aticipated  Scarcity,  The,  of  Timber.     By  Arthur  RaNSOM        ,  56 

rAppxntioti,  The,  of  Mrs,  VeaL     By  Ralph  H.  Brethkrton        ,  531 
Around  the  Three    Towers    of   Grasse.      By    F.  G.   DUKLOP- 

Wallace- Good  BODY 344 

stronomer.  A  Great  Belgian.     By  J.  Ellaro  GorE,  F.R.AS.     .  445 

PAi  Lyme  Regis.     By  Maude  Prowkr 307 

At  (he  Deodafs.    Adapted  by  H.  Mackemzik  from  the  Danish  of 

E.  HOvER 417 

Solingbrokc,  The  Politics  of.    By  Thomas  Dateson     ...  31 

80W,  The  Fight  at,  near  London,  in  1648.     By  Harold  F.  Hills  174 

Brass- Rubbing.     By  Rev.  P.  H.  IJ1TCHFIEI.D,  M.A^  F.S.A  .        .  $11 

3roken  Dream,  The.    By  George  Morley  .....  488 

BttCe,  The  Earl  of.    Dy  J.  A.  Lovat-Fraser 559 

staways,  their  Influence  on  Population.     By  W.  ALLtNCUAU     .  273 

^C^herine  IL  and  the  Comte  de  S^gur.    By  Georciana  Hill      .  61 

Censorship,  The,  of  Plays  in  France.     By  Maurice  Daumart     .  593 

China,  Matrimony  and  Music  in.     By  J.  Cuthhert  Haddem        .  604 

Coleridge  Country,  The.  By  PERaVAL  H.  W.  Almy  ...  66 
CradteSongs,  Italian.  Bv  E.  C.  Vansittart  ,  .  ,  .367 
IKd  Mary  Stuart  love  Bothwelt  ?    By  Amy  Tasker       .        .        .570 

Eastern  (question,  Three  Years  of  the.  By  \V.  Miller,  M.A  .  429 
Education,    The,    of  the    Early    Nonconformists,     By    Foster 

Watsom,  M.A 229 

Elementary  Schools  in  Japan.     By  Rev.  WiLUAM  Burnet,  M.A.  282 

Evolution,  The,  of  the  Modem  Gentleman.     By  Daniel  Johnston  189 

Fight,  The,  at  Bow,  n«ar  London,  in  1648.  By  Harold  F.  Hills  174 
Grasse,    Around    the    Three  Towers  of.    By    F.    G.    DUNLOP- 

Wallace  Goodbodv S44 

Guizot    By  Georciana  Hill 258 

Harvest  on  the  Prairie.     By  HAROLD  BiNDLOSS    .        .        .        •  S^t 

Hertfordshire,  Looking  Backward  la.  By  William  Andrews  .  454 
Hyderabad:  a  Chapter  of  Ancient  History.    By  Colonel  G.  H. 

TkEVOR,  C.S.I 245 

Irony  and  some  Synonyms.    By  H.  W.  Fowler     ....  378 

Italian  Cradle  Son^s.    By  E.  C.  Vansittart 367 

Japan,  ElemenUry  Schools  in.     By  Rev.  Wiluam  Burnet,  M.A  282 

iekylliana-    By  Emilv  J.  Climenson 346 

ewclry  and  Gems.    By  Emily  Hill 585 

.'Ecole  des  Piifvcnus.    By  Edmund  Oliver  Bentinck       .       ,  i 

Looking  Backward  in  Hertfordshire.     By  William  Andrews       .  454 

Lov«  Story,  The,  of  an  Old  Marquise.     By  Ja ye  Garry        .        .  tSo 

Love's  Year.    By  M.  A  CURTOis 518 

Lyric  Poetry,  The,  of  Victor  Hugo.    By  C.  E.  Meetkerkb  ,        .  400 

Matrimony  and  Music  in  China.     By  J.  Cuthbert  HADDEN         .  603 

Meiternich,  Prince,  and  Napoleon.    By  Georciana  Hill     .  164 

Modem  Gentleman,  The  Evolution  of  the.     By  Daniel  Johnston  189 

Monks'  Island,  On  the.  By  Z6uA  DE  LADEVkzE  .  .  .  •  125 
Mound'Making  Birds.    By  Alex.  H.  Japp,  LL.D. .       ,       ,       .321 

Mrs.  Veal,  The  Apparition  ot     By  Ralph  H.  BretherTOM  .        .  531 

Mr.  Wyatt.    By  Constance  Montfort  Nicklis        ...  74 

Napoleon  and  Prince  Meiternich.    By  Geokgiana  Hl\.l.      •        ,  \^^ 


iv  Contents. 

Hjom, 

Nightjars,  A  Study  of.    By  Alex.  H.  Japp,  LL.D 141 

Nonconformists,    The    Education    of   the    Early.      By    FOSTER 

Watson,  M.A 239 

dds  and  Ends  in  Pompeii.     By  jjLY  WOLFFSOHN        .        ,        ,  398 

31d  Age.    Py  Rev.  M.  G.  Watkins,  MA 253 

Old  Science,  The,  and  ihe  New.     By  E.  W.  Adams,  M.D.      .        .  493 

Pcak]a^d  Township,  Sonne  Bygone  Happenings  in  a.  By  John  Hyde  ^Z() 

Pedigree- Monger,  The  Amateur.     By  P.  Evans  Lewin  .        .        ,  339 

Pepys,  A  Sussex.    By  Charles  Cooper         .               .       ,       •  17 

Pdrez  Galdos,  The  Npvcls  of.     By  \V.  Miller,  M.A,      .        .        .  229 

Plantagenets,  Se!f-Styled.     By  Albert  M.  Hvamson     .        .        .  503 

Plays,  The  Staging  of,  300  Years  Ago.  By  Rev.  Eric  Rede  Buckley  288 
Pohtics,  The,  of  Uolingbroke.  By  Thomas  Baieson  .  ,  .31 
Pompeii,  0|dds  and  Ends  in.    By  LiLY  Wolffsohn       ,        .        .298 

Prairie,  Harvest  on  the.     By  HAROLD  Bindloss     .        .        ^       •  521 

Red  King's  Dream,  The.    By  E.  M.  Rutherford  ....  203 

Regicide  in  the  Nineteenth  Century.     By  S.  Beach  Chester        .  382 

Rival  Physicians,  The.    By  N.  P.  Murphy 40& 

Science,  The  Old,  and  the  New.    By  E.  W.  Adams,  M.D.     .       .  493 

Sfcur,  The  Comte  dc,  and  Catherine  n.  By  Georciana  HUX  .  62 
Self-Styled  Plantagenets.    By  Albert  M.  Hyamson      .       ,       .503 

Siddons,  The.    By  H.  SciiUTZ  WiLSOW 473 

Some  Bygone  Happenings  tn  a  I'cakland  Tovraship,  By  JOHN  HydE  389 

Some  ExpeiimeDts  with  Jane.     Uy  M.  A.  CURTOIS  .        .        .        .  313 

Some  Vulgar  Errors.    By  Philip  Kent  .       .       .       ...  49 

Sources  of  Wtst-Pyrenean  Law.     By  A.  R.  Whiteway  ...  83 

"  Spectator,  The."    By  T.  R.  Pearson 611 

Staging,  The,  of  Plays  300  Years  Ago.  By  Rev.  ERIC  Rede  BUCKLEY  288 

Study,  A,  of  Nightjars.     By  Alex.  H.  jAPP,  LL.D 141 

Sussex  Pepys,  A.  By  Charles  Cooper  .  .  .  .  .  17 
Table  Talk.    By  Sylvanus  Urban  :— 

Mr.  Baildon's  "Robert  Louis  Stevenson"— Wild  Birds  Pro- 
tection— Sea  Birds  the  Fisherman's  P'riends       .        ,        ,  103 

A  Holiday  Suggestion — English  Cathedral  Churches — A  Society 
for  the  Protection  of  the  English  Language — Respect  paid 

to  English  in  Past  Times 206 

Modem  Corruption  of  Language— Current  Errors — Stale  Quo- 
tations— New  Quotations 309 

A.  Primitive  Stage  Representation — *' Everyman  "—Story  of 
"  Ever>'jman  —Lancelot  du  Lac— Position  of  Lancelot  in 
Arthurian  Legend— "The  Idylls  of  the  King"    .        .        .413 

The  Hooligan— From  Mohock  to  Hooligan— Decay  of  Discipline  519 

Civilisation   vrrsui    Barbarism— The    Civilising     of    Central 

Afdca— Misprints— Modem  Journalism      .        .        .        .  61S 

Tales  pf  Ambassadors.  By  Geokgi.ana  HiLL  ....  462 
Tennioating  the  Treatise.     By  ENOCH  ScRlBE        .        .        .        .168 

Three  Years  of  the  Eastern  Question.     By  W.  Miller,  M.A..        .  429 

Timber,  The  Anticipated  Scarcity  of.    By  Arthur  Ransom  .       .  56 

Twelve  Signs,  The,     By  W.  B.  Waluce,  B.A 105 

Victor  Hugo,  The  Lyric  Poetry  of.     By  C.  E.  MeeikeRKE     .        .  400 

West-Pyrenean  Law,  Sources  of.     By  A.  R.  WlirraWAY  ...  83 

When  London  Liglus  the  Sky.     By  Rev.  John  M.  BaCON,  ^LA.    .  95 

Wild  Irishman's  Exploit,  A.  By  John  K.  Leys  ....  2oy 
"Words,  WbrxJs,  mere  Words."    By  Dora  Cave    .       .       ,       .101 


THE 

GENTLEMAN'S  MAGAZINE 

July  1901. 


LECOLE    DES    PREVENUS, 

By  Edmund  Oliver  Bentinck. 

SINCE  the  death  of  John  Verrall,  senior,  founder  of  the  eminent 
publishing  house  of  Verrall,  Beevor  and  Verrall,  the  manage- 
ment of  the  firm  had  been  in  the  hands  of  his  son,  who  bore  the  same 
name.  Among  men  who  had  known  the  father  intimately,  and 
appreciated  his  value  both  as  a  friend  and  as  a  man  of  business, 
it  was  generally  agreed  that  with  all  his  undoubted  good  qualities  he 
had  one  foible,  which  had  done  much  to  retard  the  prosperity  of  his 
house :  in  the  world  of  literature,  as  in  the  world  of  real  life,  he  was  a 
confirmed  misogynist  His  marriage  (so  he  would  tell  his  friends  in 
expansive  moments)  had  been  the  only  violation  of  the  principle  that 
he  had  ever  committed.  But  if  any,  emboldened  by  this  admission, 
thought  to  pave  the  way  for  further  confidences,  with  trite  reference 
to  rule-proving  exception,  then  there  was  no  more  to  be  got  out  of  John 
VerralL  Only  those  who  had  known  the  wife  interpreted  his  silence 
in  her  favour. 

And  now  that  John  the  elder  was  dead,  there  were  those  who 
traced  in  his  son  indications  of  the  same  tendency,  but  in  one 
direction  only.  John  Verrall  the  younger  had  recently  married  a  girl 
seven  or  eight  years  his  junior,  of  whom  it  was  allowed  on  all  hands 
that  Verrall  could  not  have  done  better.  He  was  aware  of  his  good 
fortune.  Passionately  devoted  to  his  wife,  if  he  escaped  the  censure 
of  uxoriousness,  it  was  all  that  could  be  said  of  him.  In  character, 
in  beauty,  in  tastes,  in  accomplishments,  Dorothea  Verrall  was  a  wife 
of  whom  any  man  might  justly  be  proud  ;  and  Verrall  sought  not  to 
conceal  his  pride.  His  attitude,  moreover,  in  social  matters  had 
never  been  such  as  to  justify  the  opinion  which  held  gpodi  Vcv  ^<& 

VOL.  cczci.    Na  2047.  ^ 


Tfu  Gentiemans  Magazine. 


tribute  to  feminine  merit. 

But  when  it  came  to  business,  then  the  old  leaven  appeared  with 
the  strength  of  concentration.  To  present  a  woman's  book  to  John 
Verrall's  criticism  was  to  offer  a  red  rag  to  a  bull.  Had  George  ElJot 
herself  appeared  to  him  in  the  spirit,  with  MSS.  in  her  hand,  she 
would  have  met,  it  is  lo  be  feared,  with  a  frigid  reception.  Yet  he  was 
both  a  man  of  taste  and  a  man  of  business,  but— a  monomaniac. 

This  story  opens  barely  six  months  after  Verrall's  marriage.  It 
was  not  generally  known  that  he  had  already  quarrelled  with  his  wife 
— quarreUed  so  seriously  that  they  bad  for  the  present  separated. 
That  was  only  known  to  three  persons  :  to  John  Verrall  himself,  to 
Dorothea,  and  to  John's  maiden  aunt,  Jane  Verrall,  who  lived  with 
hem,  and  enjoyed  the  confidence  of  both  in  things  great  and  smalL 
Vet,  considering  the  passion  that  Verrall  was  known  to  entertain  for 
his  wife,  the  fact  of  her  departure  from  his  house,  with  the  said  Jane 
Verrall,  and  of  her  continued  absence  therefrom,  could  not  pass 
without  comment.  Humorists  were  not  wanting  to  declare  that  in 
Dorothea's  cupboard  was  the  skeleton — that  behind  her  many  known 
accomplishments  lurked  one  unknown  and  greater — in  short,  that  the 
guilt  of  the  authoress  was  hers. 

The  wags  were  in  the  right  of  it. 

One  morning,  when  John  A'crrall  came  down  to  breakfast,  he 
found  Aunt  Jane  looking  rather  uneasy,  and  Dorothea  looking  rather 
timid.  John  accord  ngly  looked  pleased.  It  did  not  occur  to  him 
lo  inquire  why  Aunt  Jane  looked  uneasy  j  he  was  so  pleased  at 
Dorothea's  looking  timid.  For  two  reasons,  as  he  bad  often  told  her. 
Firstly,  because  she  was  more  bewitching  at  such  times  than  at  any 
others;  and,  secondly,  because  he  foresaw  that  he  was  to  have  the 
pleasure  of  granting  a  request,  or,  as  he  preferred  to  call  it,  obeying  a 
command.  From  the  fact  that  she  looked  rather  more  timid  than  usual 
he  merely  inferred  that  the  request  would  be  worth  granting,  or  the 
command  worth  obeying,  as  before.  Being  an  epicure  in  uxorious- 
ness,  he  kept  his  counsel. 

Dorothea  said  nothing  worthy  of  note  until  she  had  finished  her 
breakfast.  Then  she  asked  him  whether  he  would  have  another  cup 
of  coffee.  They  had  a  regular  form  of  procedure,  and  this  was  how 
it  always  b<^an.  The  next  thing  was  for  John  to  pass  up  his  cup, 
assuming  the  while  a  frigid  expression,  suggestive  of  tightened  pursc- 
slrings. 

Then  Dorothea  said : 

"John,  dear,  will  you  do  me  a  great  favour.^" 


L'Ecole  des  Pr^enus,  3 

To  which  he,  as  in  marital  dignity  boimdi  replied : 

"  Depends  entitely  what  it  is." 

So  far,  all  was  well. 

"John,  dear,  I've " 

"WeU?" 

"IVe 

"Yes?"    Dorothea  was  playing  up  splendidly. 

"IVe " 

She  came  and  stood  behind  his  chur,  in  due  adaptation  of 
Delilah  attitude  to  the  circumstances  of  a  breakfast-table. 

John,  seizing  her  hands,  crushed  them  with  weU-modulated 
brutality.    He  was  going  to  have  something  for  his  money. 

"  John,  dear,  I'm  afraid  you'll  be  angry." 

"  I  expect  I  shall     What  have  you  done  ?    Written  a  book  ?  " 

This  in  grim  playfulness,  but  the  answer  in  tempestuous  earnest : 

"Yes— not  now — a  long  time  ago — and  I  want  you  to  look  at  it" 

"The  devil!"  John  dropped  the  hands,  and,  turning  his  chair 
round,  looked  at  Dorothea.  "  My  dear  child,  I  forget  myself.  But 
of  course  you're  joking  ?  '* 

"  No,  I'm  not     I'm  quite  serious.    Is  it  really  so  wicked  of  me  ? " 

"  Dorothea,  you  know  there  is  nothing  I  detest  so  much.  It's» 
oh !  it's  un " 

No  \  he  could  not  tell  Dorothea  that  anything  she  did  was  un- 
feminine.    He  saved  himself  by  bolting,  with  a  mumbled  excuse. 

Dorothea  was  deeply  wounded.  The  blow  had  come  as  unex- 
pectedly to  her  as  to  him.  Of  course  she  had  heard  of  her  husband's 
peculiar  views  about  women-novelists  \  the  subject  had  been  in  his 
mouth  a  score  of  times  since  she  had  known  him.  But  the  mere 
recurrence  of  his  jesting  allusions  to  it  had  forbidden  her  to  take  him 
seriously.  Aunt  Jane,  too,  on  receiving  her  confidence,  had  betrayed 
some  anxiety;  thereby  amusing  Dorothea,  but  by  no  means  enlightening 
her.  She  understood  now ;  and,  understanding,  was  determinednot  to 
submit  The  thing  was  so  absurd,  so  unjust,  so  childish.  She  would 
reason  with  John ;  he  must  listen  to  reason.  She  longed  for  his  re- 
appearance. Aunt  Jane  meanwhile  sought  to  comfort  her ;  for  the 
good  lady's  sympathy  was  entirely  with  Dorothea.  It  might  be  that 
she  had  in  her  something  of  her  nephew's  prejudice  against  feminine 
authorship ;  somehow,  it  was  not  quite  right  that  women  should  deal 
in  pen-magic.  But  that  was  no  adequate  excuse  for  John's  conduct. 
Of  course,  it  would  have  been  better  that  Dorothea  should  not  have 
written  a  book  ;  but,  as  she  had  written  a  book,  it  was  his  duty  to 
read  it,  and,  if  necessary,  to  publish  it    So  she  told  'Dora^cak\Ck«!\ 

•Ha 


The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 


prove^l 

,  risen  ^^ 


I 


sincerity ;  yet  could  hold  out  but  slight  hope  that  John  would  prove^ 
amenable. 

Yerrall  did  not  appear  again  until  lunch-time.     The  meal  passed  | 
over  without  allusion  to  the  matter  in  dispute.    When  they  had 
from  the  table,  Dorothea  began  the  attack. 

"John,  you  will  look  at  my  boolr,  won't  you?" 

Verrall  tried  to  look  surprised.    He  was  becoming  conscious  that  ] 
he  was  a  little  afraid  of  Dorothea.     He  must  be  firm. 

"  Dorothea,  I  had  hoped  to  hear  no  more  about  it.  You  know 
my  views." 

*'  AVhat  are  your  views,  Joho,  exactly  ?  " 

'■  That  women  should  not  meddle  with  writing.    The  thing 
contrary  to  nature." 

"  But  why  ?  " 

The  word  would  out. 
*'  It's  unfeminine." 

Dorothea  could  not  forgive  "  unfeminine."  She  took  her  revenge 
in  kind. 

"  John,  you  argue  as  women  are  said  to  argue.  I  ask  you  why 
fl  thing  is  so,  and  you  tell  me  '  because  it  is.' " 

We  have  said,  invite  John  Verrall's  mspection  of  a  woman's  MS., 
and  you  offered  a  red  rag  to  a  hull ;  but  convict  him,  lady-reader,  of 
arguing  like  a  woman,  and  you  tied  your  red  rag  across  his  eyes — at  ^| 
once  a  bolder  and  a  safer  act.  ^^ 

John  sat  angry  and  sullen.  He  was  silenced.  Dorothea  had 
told  him  the  truth ;  he  could  not  argue  on  the  matter,  as  he  well 
knew.  He  was  battling  for  a  prejudice,  dearer  to  him  than  common* 
sense,  dearer  than  the  prosperity  of  the  house  \  whether  it  was  dearer^ 
to  him  than  Dorothea,  remained  to  be  seen.  For  the  present  he  held  ' 
blindly  to  his  point,  his  determination  strengthened  by  the  con- 
sciousness of  tangible  guilt ;  for  had  he  not  said  that  she,  <'m  yvi-aiirAi'jl 
was  unfeminine? 

"  I  am  sorry  I  don't  make  myself  clear.    You  will  understand,  atj 
least,  that  my  opinion  is  based  on  practical  experience." 

"  Experience  of  women's  books,  John  ?  " 

Verrall  got  up. 

"  1  don't  think  we  shall  do  any  good  by  discussing  it,  Dorothea. 
I  know  you  think  me  unreasonable.  Bui  I  have  my  opinions,  and  I 
abide  by  them."    And  again  he  took  refuge  in  flight 

Dinner  that  night  was  a  very  frigid  affair.  Verrall  brought  with 
him  an  air  of  reproachful  gloom,  which  Dorothea's  half-hearted 
efforts  could  not  dispel.     Her  position  was,  perhaps,  only  the  more 


'4 


A 


UEcok  des  Pr/venus,  5 

trying,  in  that  she  could  perceive  the  humour  of  the  situation,  which 
Venallf  apparently,  could  not  "When,"  Dorothea  asked  herself, 
after  the  failure  of  each  conversational  opening,  "  When  would  he 
forgive  her  for  having  written  a  book,  and  when  should  she  forgive 
him  for  refusing  to  read  it?"  Meanwhile  the  meal  dragged  on 
relentlessly ;  and  her  heart  sank  within  her,  as  she  anticipated  the 
possibility  of  others  like  it 

But  here  Aunt  Jane  intervened — a  dea  tx  macMntty  eflTectual  for 
the  moment,  if  dramatically  premature. 

"  John,  my  dear,  Tm  sure  Dorothea  is  not  looking  well  Let  me 
take  her  away  for  a  change.   I  suppose  you  can't  get  away  yourself?  " 

Verrall  caught  at  the  idea.  Dorothea  should  go  away  for  a  few 
weeks,  and  would  come  back  with  all  this  nonsense  driven  out  of 
her  head,  to  the  preservation  alike  of  conjugal  peace  and  editorial 
prejudice. 

"  No,  I  mustn't  leave  town  myself.  But  you're  quite  right  about 
Dorothea.     You'd  like  a  change,  wouldn't  you,  dear?" 

"  Yes,  John,  I  will  go  with  Aunt  Jane.  But  I  warn  you  that  I 
shall  not  come  back  till  you  become  reasonable." 

"Nous  perrons  a  gue  nous  verrons^"  said  John,  achieving  a 
timber  smile. 

Accordingly,  it  was  settled  that  Dorothea  and  Aunt  Jane  should 
go  away  on  the  following  day.  They  were  to  go  first  to  Eastbourne, 
where  they  would  take  up  their  quarters  in  a  boarding-house ;  for 
towards  such  centres  of  chill  respectability  did  Aunt  Jane's  maidenly 
instinct  ever  gravitate.  Dorothea  professed  complete  indifference  to 
all  details. 

Charles  Meldrum  had  been  stopping  at  Eastbourne  for  exactly  a 
fortnight ;  and  for  the  last  ten  days  of  that  time  he  had  been  telling 
himself  each  day  that  he  must  go  bock  to  town  at  once — to-morrow. 
He  even  knew  the  train  by  which  he  would  go  to-morrow,  having 
looked  it  up  to-day.  He  had  written  a  letter  to  his  landlady,  telling 
her  to  expect  him  ;  but  he  had  not  sent  it.  For,  as  on  further  re- 
flection he  rightly  argued,  accidents  may  always  happen,  so  a  telegram 
on  the  day  was  better  than  a  letter  of  the  day  before.  As  the  reader 
will  (k)ubtless  infer,  "accidents"  had  not  been  wanting  to  illustrate 
the  justice  of  his  reasoning.  Consequently  the  telegram  had  not 
been  sent  either. 

Now,  why  all  this  delay?  And  whence  this  unprecedented  run 
of  "accidents"? 

Meldrum  was  staying  in  a  boarding-house :  the  bat  ^kicft^  vu^')^ 


The  Gentkinatis  Magazine. 


\\\  which  an  independent  man  would  choose  to  stay.  And  Meldrum 
was  independent— in  so  far,  that  is,  as  that  he  was  subject  to  no 
coercion  which  Imposed  on  him  the  necessity  of  a  boarding-house 
In  fact,  he  had  made  his  decision  in  a  state  of  unsound  mind. 
Fortune  had  dealt  hardly  with  him  these  three  years.  During  this 
period  he  had  wasted  liis  substance  on  many  type-writers,  and  nothing 
had  come  of  it.  The  magazine  editors  had  sent  back  his  MSS.  with 
neat  little  notes  of  rejection  inserted  somewhere  about  the  middle. 
The  publishers  had  besought  that  they  might  see  his  face  no  more. 
And  now  he  was  sick  of  it.  Not  that  he  had  any  intention  of 
despairing ;  but,  for  the  time,  he  was  sick  of  it.  I  le  must  have  a  holi- 
day, he  decided.  He  must  get  out  of  town,  and  he  must  get  away 
from  himself.  He  did  not  much  care  where  he  went,  provided  that 
no  great  trouble  was  involved  in  getting  there.  He  knew  a  little  of 
Eastbourne.  It  is  a  good  enough  place  in  which  to  glut  the  cynical 
maw  of  disappointed  authorship,  better  than  its  bigger  neighbours  on 
either  side,  because  it  is  so  new,  so  pleased  with  itself,  so  convinced,  like 
Boston  State,  that  it  is  *'  the  hub  of  the  universe."  What  a  feast  was 
here  for  a  moody  scribbler  !  Not  that  he  meant  to  write  about  it : 
that  was  not  his  idea  of  a  holiday,  but  it  would  give  him  someone  else 
to  be  angry  with. 

He  was  tired  of  being  angry  with  insensate  publishers.  He  would 
seek  other  objects  for  his  wrath— the  prosperous  little  tradesman,  the 
local  meteorologist,  the  brainless,  knickcrbockered  "blood." 

So,  firstly,  he  had  decided  to  go  to  Eastbourne. 

And,  secondly,  in  his  wicked  perversity,  he  luid  flung  himself  into 
a  boarding-house.  Here,  too,  there  would  be  material  for  acid  com- 
ment, or  there  is  no  faith  in  Holmes  and  in  Balzac.  He  liad  often 
declared  to  admiring  but  incredulous  friends  that  he  would  some  day 
spend  a  week  or  so  in  a  boarding-house.  Now  should  be  the  time. 
His  expectations  were  not  wholly  disappointed.  There  was  the 
*'  relative  in  bombazine  "  to  the  verj-  life ;  I  do  not  say  that  he  could  have 
sworn  to  the  material.  True,  Miss  Shairp  was  not  called  upon  to 
repress  the  hungrj*  clamourers  for  "buckwheat  cakes":  the  fees 
charged  being  such  as  to  ensure  a  sufficiency  of  that  or  any  other 
commodity  in  reason,  however  *'skerce  and  high."  Rather  was  it 
her  function  to  keep  ever-green  the  memory  of  her  patroness's  deceased 
husband :  to  chill  thereby  the  flippancy  of  the  young,  and  stimulate 
the  ghostly  anticipations  of  the  old.  Pire  Goriot  there  was 
none  ;  as  indeed  how  should  there  be  in  a  boarding-house  which  has 
advertised  itself  for  these  ten  years  as  being  *^  under  entirely  new 
management,"  and  in  a  fashionable   English   watering-place  under 


^■im  ■ 


i 


i 

4 


HEt^  dts  Pr^vemms.  7 

management  almost  as  nev?  And  had  tbere  hfrry  Ac  ■■—""■*  2sd 
pathos  of  his  cfaaractgr  would  aEke  have  be^  ^rova  aa»r  apoB 
MddnuD,  whose  ofasenatirc  bcnky  had  aircadj  fetsad  a  peace  cf 

concentiatioa. 

Among  the  connony  with  vfaota  be  su  down  in  ^Saoercatfee 
erenii^  of  ha  anifal,  thoevas  one  of  wbooi  be  sdc!  s>  ^Base%  as 
he  retired  to  his  own  room,  diat  here  ia  the  iob  was  bb  ideal  d 
vcHnanhood.  As  somrthnrs  happmi  in  spch  caae^  he  wocLd ! 
been  sordj  puzzled  to  dfscxibe  her.  He  fcacv  diae  she  «i 
thing  abore  the  xweagt  heigbc  of  woman,  that  her  haar  wja  iiaek, 
that  she  was  dressed  in  bbck.  And  diose  «*ze  fvo£a^  :be  coif 
solid  &cts  in  his  pofwrainn.  As  to  her  a^  be  ibooffx  at  £:sc  tbat 
she  was  about  tvent^,  hot,  in  the  tighe  of  sd»cqscEC  onar'^Twym,  he 
conceded  her  a  possible  mai)^  of  five  j^arsicar*:.  HeEadorigHa^ 
supposed  her  to  be  the  danghrrr  of  an  tSiAe^laijwbomxoeaigaiatd 
her,  but  irtten  Mrs.  Windsor,  their  hostess,  addressed  her  as  Mn. 
VenaU  he  derided  diat  she  was  a  widow,  and  be  soon  leamc  fpxn  ha 
own  words  that  the  elder  ladjwas  her  annL  Like  fasmseSf ,  bcch  Ia<£cs 
toc^  bntlittlepait  in  the  convention  of  the  table;  andastbef  had 
a  private  sittii^-room,  be  seMom  saw  them,  during  die  fint  wecx  of 
his  stay,  except  at  meals.  Yet  in  that  time  be  bad  made  up  fass  mfnd 
that  Mrs.  Vemll  icptcacnled  the  perfectioo  of  fieminine  grace  and 
beauty ;  that  every  word  of  her  mooth,  every  tboc^  of  ber  brain, 
was  instinct  with  a  saperfanman  delicacy;  and  Ust,  bo:  not  kast,  that 
this  creature  of  another  qriiere  wu  gjadoosiy  disposed  to  take  a 
compassicmate  interest  in  his  unworthy  sell 

This  was  precis^  why  be  was  going  away  to-morrow.  Had  not 
Dorothea,  in  the  fulness  of  her  beait,  cast  upon  him  the  eye  of 
sympathy  (the  demcmstiation,  it  should  here  be  said,  had  been  evoked 
by  the  sig^t  of  an  aboonnaHy  large  and  heavily  laden  envelope  which 
Meldrum  had  found  on  his  [date  at  breaklast  one  nximii^)  he  would 
perhaps  have  alloired  himsdf  f^  weeks  to  come  the  lazozy  of  con- 
templation. But  as  things  were,  be  felt  that  be  could  not  sUy  much 
longer  in  the  same  house  with  Mrs.  Venall  without  making  a  fool  of 
himself,  as  he  rightly  termed  it :  for  a  man  may  not  marry  a  goddess 
with  no  more  at  his  back  than  jQzoo  a  year  certain,  plus  professional 
earnings  at  the  rate  of  a  guinea  a  week.  He  must  give  the  goddess 
up. 

The  process  of  abandonment  had  now  lasted  for  ten  days.  And 
now  came  a  stroi^er  temptation. 

AmcMig  Mrs.  Windsor's  guests  was  a  solicitor,  named  Bannister, 
dear  to  his  hostess  as  her  fiist-bom.     A  mad  fdlow,  this  Baxmister. 


8  The  Genilevtan's  Magazine. 

He  would  quip  you,  crank  you,  and  so  forth,  by  tlic  hour,  if  you 
would  ;  and  by  the  meal,  whether  you  would  or  no. 

Only  Dorothea,  who  certainly  knew  how  to  "look  presumption 
out  of  countenance,"  was  secure  from  his  sallies.  Twice  he  had 
originated  and  perfected  some  amateur  theatrical  abomination,  and 
was  even  now  suspected  of  mediuting  a  third  attempt.  Between 
him  and  Meldrum  there  existed  a  silent  animosity,  based  not  merely 
on  incomi>atibility  of  tastes,  for  it  may  be  questioned  whether 
Bannister  would  ever  have  acted  on  grounds  so  intangible,  but 
on  a  grave  misdemeanour  of  Meldmm's.  Bannister,  it  seems,  had  a 
cure  of  souls  within  the  house,  combining  sprightliness  with  piety  in 
a  way  which  won  all  hearts.  Every  morning  at  breakfast  he  would 
execute  a  Grace,  during  which  a  man  might,  with  due  regard  both  to  his 
God  and  to  his  belly,  have  worked  through  from  his  Benedichts 
btnedicat  well-nigh  to  his  Bemdicto  benedicatttr.  Then  beneath  a 
doubtful  collar  tucking  a  napkin  where  doubt  was  not  he  would  fall 
to  and  tackle  God's  good  bacon  with  a  holy  zest.  Now,  on  the 
occasion  of  Meldrum's  first  meai  in  the  house  Providence,  tempering 
the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb,  had  ordained  that  Bannister  should  be 
absent  They  had  accordingly  met  for  the  first  time  at  the  breakfast- 
table  on  the  following  morning.  Meldrum,  uncertain  as  to  the 
elasticity  of  the  breakfast-hour,  n'os  punctual.  Opposite  to  him  on 
he  table  was  a  large  covered  dish.  Almost  opposite  to  him  was 
Dorothea.  He  laid  an  officious  hand  upon  the  cover.  "  Let  ms  first" 
warned  Bannister,  with  a  glance  towards  Meldrum  in  which  wrath 
was  duly  seasoned  with  unctuous  pity.  The  cover  was  already  on 
high,  Meldrum  was  already  looking  towards  Dorothea,  when  he 
realised  the  voice,  now  flowing  in  relentless  periods,  with  a  tincture 
of  acidity  for  which  he  suspected  that  he  was  responsible.  All 
through  the  lengthy  declamation  Meldrum  stuck  to  his  cover  like  a 
man,  regarding  with  ambiguous  gravity  the  dish  of  eggs  and  bacon, 
which  seemed  to  throw  up  its  steam  with  a  sort  of  rollicking  unholiness. 

The  thing  was  unpardonable. 

Meldrum's  resolute  taciturnity  had  so  far  baffled  Bannister's 
desire  for  revenge.     Bui  he  waited  his  opportunity. 

Now  Miss  Shairp  was  inquisitive,  and  had  charge  oftheletter-bag. 
That  large  envelope  of  Meldrum's,  which  had  called  forth  the 
sympathetic  glance  from  Dorothea,  had  not  escaped  her  \igihnce. 
It  bore,  on  the  other  side,  the  name  of  a  publisher.  Here  was  a 
discovery  I  Mr.  Meldrum  was  an  author.  Bubbling  with  excitement, 
Miss  Shairp  yet  kept  her  secret  for  many  days.  At  dinner  this 
evening  it  was  fated  to  come  out. 


I 

1 


L'Ecoie  des  Privenus,  9 

The  entertainment-man  was  darkly  hinting  at  his  theatrical  plans. 
But  Miss  Shairp  made  up  her  mind  to  go  one  better. 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Bannister^"  she  exclaimed,  "  I've  got  something  new." 

**  Well,  Miss  Shairp,  what's  that  ?  "  with  a  great  air  of  impartiality. 
"  Everyone  in  his  turn,  you  know.  Let's  play  fair ;  that's  what  I 
say.  Let  everyone  have  his  chance.  If  your  game's  better  than 
mine — why,  let's  have  your  game." 

"  Ladies,"  said  Miss  Shairp  mysteriously,  "  you  may  not  know 
that  there  is  a  real  live  author  among  us." 

A  horrible  fear  caused  Meldrum's  heart  to  stand  still  There 
was  a  feminine  rustle  of  anticipation. 

"Am  I  not  right,  Mr.  Meldnim?" 

A  chorus  of  remorseless  voices  assailed  the  poor  wretch,  demand- 
ing that  he  should  "  read  them  something." 

This  was  gall  and  wormwood  to  Bannister.  Meldrum,  of  all 
people !  How  long  should  the  ungodly  prosper  ?  The  possibility 
that  the  request  should  be  otherwise  than  gratifying  to  his  enemy 
would  never  have  occurred  to  him,  had  he  not  seen  Meldrum's  face 
at  the  moment.    Then  he  understood  and  used  his  opportunity. 

"Now,  Mr.  Meldrum,"  he  urged,  "you  won't  refuse  the  ladies?" 
("  The  ladies  "  were  for  ever  in  his  mouth.) 

Meldrum  souffrmt  en  damni.  He  screwed  out  some  lame 
excuse. 

To  add  to  his  torment  was  beyond  Bannister's  ingenuity.  He 
returned  to  his  theatricals,  drunk  with  revenge. 

Meldrum's  glance  wandered  round  the  table  until  it  lighted  on 
Dorothea.     Once  more  he  basked  in  divine  compassion. 

When,  a  few  minutes  later,  Bannister  led  his  chattering  troupe 
from  the  room,  Dorothea  lingered  behind  with  her  aunt.  She  turned 
to  Meldrum,  who  was  waiting  for  her  to  pass  out. 

"  Mr.  Meldrum,"  she  said,  "  won't  you  relent,  and  read  us  some 
of  your  book?  We  should  both  enjoy  it  so  much — shouldn't  we, 
Aunt?" 

"Certainly,  my  dear,"  said  good  Aunt  Jane,  "if  Mr.  Meldrum 
would  be  so  kind  as  to  read  it  to  us  upstairs,  where  we  shall  not  be 
disturbed." 

This  was  quite  another  thing.  Meldrum  murmured  grateful 
acceptance,  yet  not  without  misgiving.  To  present  at  the  altar 
MS.  which  had  been  saved  from  the  paper-basket  only  by  its  regular 
accompaniment  of  postage-stamps— what  irreverence  was  this?  He 
compounded  with  his  conscience  by  calling  it  rather  an  appeal  to  a 
higher  court 


lO 


The  Gentleman  s  Magazine, 


"  But  I  warn  you,"  he  addcd^  "  that  I  am  a  rejected  scribbleri  a 
Failure  of  three  years'  standing. ' 

"Nevermind,  Mr.  Mddrutn,  you  shall  find  acceptance  at  last. 
We  will  wait  here,  if  you  will  bring  the  MS." 

He  might  have  been  a  six-year-old  child  sent  to  fetch  his  broken 
toy.  This  was  Dorothea's  fearless,  maternal  way  with  the  objects 
of  her  pity. 

Meldrum  did  not  recognise  maternity  in  this  youthful  guise. 
(After  all,  he  was  about  four  years  older  than  Dorothea.)  Let  us 
confess  with  shame  that  her  conduct  had  filled  him  with  a  certain 
almost  vulgar  compbccnc)'.  Must  he  indeed  give  the  goddess  up  ? 
She  was  within  his  grasp  !  It  was  hard,  but  ;^200  a  year  plus  a 
guinea  a  week.     lie  must  steel  himself. 

On  his  return  to  the  dining-room  be  was  conducted  upstairs  to 
the  temporary  shrine. 

Aunt  Jane,  pleading  the  infirmity  of  years,  took  possession  of  a 
sofa  in  one  corner  of  the  room,  Dorothea  sat  down  by  the  fire,  and, 
pointing  to  a  chair  opposite,  ordered  Meldrum  to  begin. 

Now  that  it  came  to  the  point  Meldrum  found  that  he  was 
unable  to  begin.  The  difficulty  had  not  occurred  to  him  until 
now,  but  he  had  never  been  able  to  screw  up  his  courage  to  the 
point  of  reading  aloud.  He  remembered  an  occasion  on  which  his 
steady  refusal  to  read  Tennyson  to  a  certain  persistent  lady  of  his 
acquaintance  had  brought  him  into  a  situation  scarcely  less  em- 
barrassing than  that  of  the  dinner-table  a  few  minutes  ago.  But  to 
read  one's  own  stuff— without  even  the  confidence  that  is  begotten 
of  publication  !  SVith  scarcely  more  difficulty  he  could  have  joined 
in  the  fatuous  antics  of  Bannister's  company  downstairs.  He 
implored  Dorothea  to  read  the  MS.  herself. 

"But,"' she  objected,  "I  can't  read  aloud  either,  Mr.  Meldrum; 
and  if  I  read  it  to  myself,  what  is  Aunt  to  do  ?  " 

Now  Aunt  Jane,  as  Dorothea  became  aware  at  the  moment,  was 
palpably  asleep.  Her  objection  therefore  becoming  invalid,  she  took 
the  MS.,  and  read  for  some  time  in  silence. 

Meldrum  sat  awaiting  her  verdict  with  due  meekness ;  his 
thought  alternating,  if  truth  be  told,  bet^Ycen  "  The  Grey  Goose  " 
(chat  was  his  title)  and  the  weekly  guine>i5. 

When  Dorothea  had  got  through  some  thirty  pages  she  paused 
and  looked  up. 

"  Yi3.  But  you  know,  Mr.  Meldrum,  you  mustn't  c;»ll  a  poor 
girl'GUdys.'" 

"  Ob,  she  desen'es  all  that,  as  youll  see,  if  you  go  on." 


VEcole  des  Pr^enus,  \  i 

"  But  does  the  reader  ?  However,  youVe  managed  to  keep  the 
'  w '  out  of  it,  which  is  something." 

"  Well,  you  know  best.     What  am  I  to  call  her  then  ?  " 

"  H'm.     How  would  '  Dorothea '  do  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  everyone  has  some  names  which  he  keeps  sacred 
from  the  profanation  of  his  own  scribblings.  Now  for  me  there  is 
only  one  Dorothea." 

She  scarcely  repressed  a  start. 

"  In  '  Middlemarch,'  you  know." 

"  Oh,  I  see ;  yes." 

Her  momentary  confusion  did  not  escape  Meldrum.  "  By  Jove," 
was  his  imspoken  soliloquy,  "there'll  be  another  Dorothea  for  me 
soon,  if  I'm  not  careful."  Whence  we  may  conclude  :  firstly,  that 
he  gathered  from  the  little  start  that  Mrs.  Verrall's  Christian  name 
was  Dorothea ;  secondly,  that  the  said  confusion  did  not  tend  to 
diminish  her  attractions ;  and,  thirdly,  that  Meldrum  had  a  very 
tolerable  opinion  of  himself. 

"  Well,"  said  Dorothea,  "  that  must  be  altered  somehow.  If  it 
were  not  for  one  or  two  little  things  like  that,  the  story  would  do 
very  well,  so  far ; "  and  she  resumed  her  reading. 

Meldrum,  sitting  opposite,  drank  unchecked  of  her  beauty,  till 
a  vinous  complacency  crept  over  him. 

He  was  particularly  grateful  to  her  in  that  she  was  called 
Dorothea.  The  name  guided  his  contemplations.  He  bethought 
him  again  of  "  Middlemarch,"  ever  his  text-book.  He  tried  to  fit 
upon  her  the  delicious  amethyst  episode.  It  baffled  him.  Who 
shall  pierce  beneath  the  face  of  perfect  womanhood,  and  view  the 
crude  religious  flutterings  of  an  unfledged  soul  ?  Casaubon,  too : 
bad  she  had  her  Casaubon  ?  It  suited  his  mood  to  believe  that  she 
had.  His  thoughts  waxed  eloquent  Some  brain-crammed,  heart- 
starved  Cambridge  don,  some  dusty  blue-bottle  of  the  combination 
room,  battened  for  monotonous  years  on  college  pedantry  and 
college  port,  and  breaking  at  last  his  heaven-ordained  confinement, 
to  fasten  with  vampire  greed  upon  this  flower — God's  gift,  but 
not  to  him.  Ugh !  A  less  revolting  picture.  The  perfect  scene 
with  Lydgate,  towards  the  end  of  the  story.  There  was  the 
keynote  to  this  Dorothea's  character,  as  to  that  of  her  prototype. 
Sympathy ! 

The  frigid  calculation  of  weekly  guineas  recurred  to  him.  He 
fiung  it  from  him,  and  clothed  himself  in  courage. 

"  With  sympathy  to  back  me,  what  may  I  not  do— become  ?  " 

Dorothea,  engrossed  in  her  MS.,  looked  up— somewhat  at  a  loss 


13 


The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 


for  the  connection.  How  long  bad  he  been  talking,  and  she 
ignoring  him  ? 

"  Be  assured,  Mr.  Meldrum,  you  have  my  fullest  sympathy." 

The  words  were  perfunctory,  but  not  the  lone. 

He  rose,  and  drew  near  to  her  chair. 

"Mrs.  Verrall— Doro " 

"  Mr.  Meldrura  !  '* 

He  stood  petrified— his  attitude  the  perfection  of  awkwardness. 
As  Dorothea  watched  him,  indignation  gave  way  to  amusement. 
Take  for  similitude  a  dog — willing  of  spirit,  but  weak  of  flesh — dis- 
covered with  forepaws  on  the  breakfast- table,  the  forbidden  rasher 
palpable  within  his  jaws. 

"What  can  excuse  me?    You  know  what  I  would  have  asked?  " 

Impossible  to  say  "  Yes." 

"  WIml  do  you  mean,  Mr.  Meldrum?" 

"I  would  have  asked— that  your  sympathy — that  your**  (he 
stumbled  on  the  word  like  a  schoolboy) — "  that  your  love  might  be 
mine." 

"  You  know  that  I  am  married  ?" 

Meldrum  sat  back,  stupefied,  into  the  chair  behind  him,  while 
Dorothea  quietly  resumed  her  reading.  It  did  not  take  him  long  to 
rally  his  senses.  Her  matronly  composure  stung  him  deliciously. 
Vanity  was  absorbed  in  re\'erence.  He  caught  himself  thinking 
that  she  would  be  even  more  charming  as  Barbcrine  than  as  Dorothea. 
I^t  the  reader  feel  no  alarm  ;  there  was  not  iwopennyworth  of  Roscm- 
berg  in  Mcldnim's  composition. 

"Mrs.  Verrall,  will  you— can  you— forgive  my  idiocy?" 

"Never  mind  that,  Mr.  Meldrum.  Now  let  us  be  practical 
Have  you  shown  this  to  any  publishers  ?  " 

"Yes  ;  every  publisher  in  London,  I  should  think." 

"Verrall  and  Beevor?" 

"Er-no." 

"But  why  not?" 

"Mr.  Verrall  is  an  old  acquaintance  of  mine.  One  doesn't  like 
to  force  one's  stuff  on  a  man  in  that  way.     Is ?" 

"Oh,  what  nonsense  I  Mr.  Meldrum,  you  will  ne\er  make  your 
way.  You  mustn't  consider  your  friends.  You  mu3t/«M.'*  Doro- 
thea spoke  with  authority.  She  knew  the  world;  she.  as  the 
reader  is  aware,  pushed.  "  How  long  have  you  known  Mr. 
Verrall?" 

"I  knew  him  a  long  time  ago.  I  haven't  seen  him  for  yean." 
At  last  he  could  get  his  question  in.     "  U  that  Mr.  VermU ?  " 


LEcoU  des  Privenus.  13 

"That  Mr.  Venall  is  my  husband,  yes.  We  must  make  him 
publish  it." 

"  But,  Mrs.  Veirall — I  can't  thank  you  enough  for  your  kind- 
ness— but  it  really  isn't  fair." 

''Oh,"  with  delicious  candour,  "it  will  have  to  be  altered  a 
good  deal,  of  course— quite  rewritten  in  some  parts." 

Meldrum  found  that,  under  circumstances,  he  could  enjoy 
humiliation. 

"  You  really  think  it  is  worth  altering — rewriting  ?  " 

"Of  course  it  is;  you  know  it  is.  Mr.  Meldrum,  an  author 
should  be  above  petty  self-disparagement." 

He  would  have  sought  to  merit  further  reproof.  But  Dorothea 
resumed: 

"  However,  you  must  send  it  first,  and  have  Mr.  Verrall's  opinion 
on  the  book  as  it  stands." 

"  But " 

"  Now  you  are  going  to  make  excuses.  I  shall  send  it  myself, 
to-night.  Only  you  must  write  me  a  few  lines  to  enclose  with  it. 
You  can  do  that  here." 

Protest  was  useless.  Meldrum  sat  down  at  a  writing-table. 
The  letter  only  took  him  five  minutes.  When  it  was  finished,  he 
received  his  dismissal. 

All  this  had  taken  place  on  a  Monday  evening.  On  Thursday 
Dorothea  received  a  letter  from  John,  which  we  shall  take  the 
liberty  of  publishing  : 

My  dear  Dorothea, — Do  not  suppose  for  a  moment  that 
this  is  a  letter  of  submission.  I  am  still  good  for  another  week  or 
so ;  after  which  period  I  foresee  that  I  shall  be  "  reasonable,"  for 
mere  want  of  someone  to  pour  out  my  coffee.  It  was  a  dastardly 
stroke  to  take  Aunt  Jane  with  you.  But  mind :  my  reasonableness 
will  extend  only  so  far  as  to  read  this  abomination  :  publishing  is 
quite  another  matter.  Meanwhile  I  have  other,  and  (my  last 
flicker  of  independence)  better  fish  to  fry.  Have  you  at  Quebec 
House  come  across  a  man  named  Meldrum  ?  If  so,  you  have  met 
the  George  Eliot  of  our  generation  (though  who  shall  persuade  you 
that  any  man  may  bear  comparison  with  her?)  Perhaps  I  may 
have  mentioned  his  name  to  you  before,  as  he  is  an  old  acquaint- 
ance of  mine,  though  I  have  not  seen  him  now  for  many  years.  I 
had  no  idea  that  he  possessed  any  literary  ability — or  even  ambi- 
tion— until  I  received  from  him  on  Tuesday  last  a  couple  of  MSS. 
<Mi  which  I  have  been  occupied  ever  since.    One  of  these— the 


14 


The  Gentkmans  Magazine. 


earlier— has  evidently  been  ihe  round  of  the  publishers.  It  is' 
called  "The  Grey  Goose."  It  has  enough  errors  of  treatment  and 
construction  to  account  for  its  failure :  yet,  on  a  more  attentive 
reading,  its  good  points  arc  so  apparent  that  I  can  persuade  myself, 
though  with  difficulty,  that  the  man  who  wrote  "A  Student  of 
Pascal"  may  have  exercised  his  'prentice  hand  on  "The  Grey 
Goose."  As  to  the  later  book,  I  may  possibly  cool  down  a  little : 
at  present,  it  appears  to  me  faultless — the  work  of  a  master. 
Evidently,  Meldrum  only  sent  the  "  Goose  "  as  an  afterthought,  for 
his  letter  only  mentions  "a  MS."  But  I  have  no  doubt  it  may  be 
worked  into  shape :  I  accordingly  hope  to  come  to  terms  with  him 
about  both  books.  The  marvel  is  that  he  should  have  found  no 
pubHisher  :  for  it  is  impossible  that  these  two  should  be  consecutive 
books;  he  must  ha\'e  written  a  great  deal  in  between.  I  have 
asked  him  to  come  up  and  see  me  as  soon  as  he  can.  I  am  only 
sorry  that  you  will  not  be  here  to  receive  him  :  for  I  will  not  deny 
you  a  certain  passive  intelligence  in  things  literary.  Now,  shall  we 
make  a  compromise?  Come  back  at  once,  and  I  will  read  the 
thing  :  but  under  protest,  and  on  the  understanding  that  nothing 
of  the  sort  is  to  occur  again.     Let  mc  know  your  decision. 

I  remain,  Madam,  your  obedient  servant,  ^m 

JOHX   VeRRALL.      ^ 

It  was  in  ber  own  room  that  Dorothea  read  this  letter.  When 
she  had  finished  it  she  flung  herself  upon  her  unoffending  aunt  and 
went  near  to  strangling  her. 

*'  My  dear,  what  is  the  matter?"  asked  the  victim  mildly. 

Dorothea  deigned  no  oral  explanation,  but,  sitting  down,  wTote  a ' 
short  note,  which  she  handed  to  Aunt  Jane. 

"  Is  not  this  wifely  obedience  ?  "  she  asked.  ^H 

Aunt  Jane  read  :  '■ 

My  dear  John, — ^^Ve  will  come  home  to-morrow.  As  to  the 
MS.,  you  need  not  read  it.     I  will  have  nothing  done  under  protest. 

Yours, 

Dorothea. 

*'  My  dear,"  was  her  comment,  "  I  am  very  glad.  You  are  a  good 
child,  Dorothea,  John  was  in  the  wrong.  Does  he  ask  you  to  come 
home?" 

"  Yes ;  but  of  course  he  does  not  admit  that  he  was  in  the  WTong." 

"  Men  never  do,"  said  Aunt  Jane,  of  her  experience  ;  and  added 
again,  "  but  you  are  a  good  child." 

"  Yes,"  Dorothea  assented. 


I 


J 


LEcoU  des  Prdvenus.  15 

Preseatly  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door.    Meldrum  appeared. 

"  May  I  come  in  ?  I  am  afraid,  Mrs.  Venall,  that  there  has  been 
some  mistake  about  that  unlucky  MS.  of  mine." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  Dorothea  ;  "  I  made  a  mistake.  I  will  ex- 
plain, but  not  now.  Mr.  Meldrum,  I  want  you  to  promise  mc 
something." 

"  I  promise." 

"  Say  nothing  to  Mr.  Verrall,  and  write  nothing  to  him,  until  you 
have  my  permission  to  do  so." 

"So  be  it." 

"  I  am  going  home  to-morrow,  and  will  explain  the  mistake  to 
Mr.  VerralL    That  will  be  better  than  writing." 

"  Mr.  Verrall  has  asked  me  to  see  him  about  the  MS.,  my  MS., 
so  I  shall  be  going  up  too." 

"When?" 

"  To-morrow."    He  meant  it  this  time. 

"  Then  you  shall  look  after  us  and  our  luggage." 

Meldrum  dined  with  the  Verralls  on  the  following  night,  for 
the  party  had  arrived  within  half  an  hour  of  their  usual  dinner- 
hour. 

The  meal  was  almost  as  silent  as  the  last  which  John  and 
Dorothea  had  together,  despite  the  presence  of  a  guest.  Indeed} 
Meldrum  was  perhaps  the  most  silent  of  the  party.  He  was  uneasy 
about  the  mysterious  MS.  which  had,  it  seemed,  accompanied  bis 
own.  John  Verrall's  mind  was  full  of  the  same  subject,  from  another 
point  of  view.  So  was  Dorothea's.  Aunt  Jane  alone  showed  due 
composure.  There  seemed  to  be  a  tacit  agreement  that  no  "shop" 
should  be  talked  until  dinner  was  over. 

Meldrum  would  drink  nothing,  and  the  quartette  repaired  together 
to  the  drawing-room.  But  Aunt  Jane  disappeared  at  once  on  some 
household  errand. 

Verrall  could  hold  his  peace  no  longer. 

"  Meldrum,"  he  exclaimed,  "  I  can't  put  those  two  books  together. 
Tell  me  all  about  them.    What  have  you  written  in  between  ?    The 

'  Student  of  Pascal '  is  genius  ;  the  other "    He  stopped,  finding 

no  convenient  expression. 

Meldrum,  remembering  his  promise,  looked  appealingly  at 
Dorothea. 

She  realised  that  she  had  been  inconsiderate— almost  ungenerous. 
She  sought  to  make  amends,  and  at  the  same  time  to  disburden 
herself  of  her  secret 


16 


The  Genthmans  Magazine, 


"  To  say  truth,  Mr.  Meldrum,  my  husband  is  no  critic.  And  in 
this  case  I  fear  marital  prejudice  is  at  work  in  my  favour." 

He  knew  all.     He  seized  Dorothea  by  the  wrists. 

"  You  ? "  he  gasped.  "  Let  me  look  at  you.  You  wrote  it  ? 
The  *  Student  of  Pascal  is  yours  ?  "  He  knelt  before  his  *'  fair  and 
strong  and  terrible  lioness."  *'  Dorothea,  trample  on  me.  I  am  a 
worm  .ind  no  man.  Dorothea" — words  failed  him.  "Dorothea, 
try  my  faith.  Order  me  to  publish  a  railway  guide,  on  hand-made 
paper,  with  illustrations  by  Myrbach.     Trample." 

Dorothea  trampled,  with  dainty  precision  : 

N'ous  Kroa£.  par  nos  lois,  Ics  ji^ges  des  ouvrages  ; 
Par  nos  lois,  prose  el  vers,  tout  nous  sera  soutnis  : 
Nul  n'aura  de  Tesprit,  hora  dou»  el  nos  amis. 
Nous  chcrchciotu  partout  &  trouvei  i^  redire, 
Et  ne  verroni  que  nous  qui  sachent  bien  ^crire. 

Verrall  sprang  to  his  feet.  There  was  yet  a  red  rag  for  this  tame 
bull — Alexandrine  verse,  spoken  ;  written,  he  could  endure  it  as  well 
as  another  man. 

"To  the  woman  who  can  quote  five  consecutive  lines  of  Moliire 
and  flinch  not,  publishing  is  child's  play.  Dorothea,  the  fair  fame 
of  Verrall,  Bcevor  and  Verrall  is  in  your  keeping." 

He  made  for  the  door,  dragging  Meldrum  with  him. 

But  worse  was  to  come.  Dorothea  was  on  her  mettle.  She 
intercepted  Meldrum's  flight. 

Vous,  St  vous  connaisset  des  maris  pr^veniui, 
Eavoyez>les,  &u  moins,  i  I'^cole  chez  nout. 

At  the  moment  j\unt  Jane  entered. 

Verrall  gave  her  a  warning  touch  as  Meldrum  passed  out  of  the 
room. 

*'  Your  niece,  madam,'*  he  said,  with  complex  irreverence,  "  is 
grievously  vexed " 

Dorothea  slammed  the  door  in  time. 

Criticism  came  hissing  through  the  keyhole :  "  Unfeminine !  " 


'7 


A    SUSSEX    PEPYS, 


WILLIAM  COWPER,  who  was  afterwards  Lord  Chancellor, 
writing  to  his  wife  in  1690  from  the  comparatively  civilised 
neighbourhood  of  Kingston-on-Thames,  excused  himself  for  not 
having  written  from  Horsham — where  he  had  been  attending  cir- 
cuit— on  the  plea  that  they  had  to  send  their  letters  six  miles  thence 
by  special  messenger  to  meet  the  post.  Of  the  condition  of  rural 
Sussex  at  that  time  he  gives  a  deplorable  account  "  The  Sussex 
ways,"  he  says,  "are  bad  and  ruinous  beyond  imagination.  I  vow 
'tis  a  melancholy  consideration  that  mankind  will  inhabit  such  a 
heap  of  dirt  for  a  poor  livelihood.  The  country  is  a  sink  of  about 
fourteen  miles  broad,  which  receives  all  the  water  that  falls  from  two 
long  ranges  of  hills  on  both  sides  of  it ;  and,  not  being  furnished 
with  convenient  drainage,  is  kept  moist  and  soft  by  the  water  till  the 
middle  of  a  dry  summer,  which  is  only  able  to  make  it  tolerable  to 
ride  for  a  short  time." 

Very  little  substantial  improvement  seems  to  have  been  effected 
within  the  following  fifty  or  sixty  years.  The  roads  continued  to  be 
impassable  for  the  greater  part  of  the  year.  The  only  way  of 
getting  about  was  on  horseback — the  husband  riding  with  his  wife 
on  a  pillion  behind  him  \  a  slip  of  road  was  made  hard  for  horse- 
men by  the  refuse  slag  from  the  extinct  ironworks,  the  rest  of  the 
roadway  being  available  only  in  the  middle  of  summer. 

It  followed,  therefore,  that  those  who  lived  and  carried  on  their 
business  in  the  remoter  Sussex  towns  and  villages  led  singularly 
isolated  lives,  and  of  their  habits  and  customs,  amusements  and 
mode  of  life,  but  few  records  have  reached  us.  One  curiously  in- 
teresting one,  however,  survives  in  the  diaries  of  one  Thomas 
Turner,  a  tradesman  of  East  Hothly,  the  manuscript  of  which 
having  remained  in  the  possession  of  his  descendants  for  a  century 
or  more,  came  at  last  under  the  observation  of  Messrs.  R.  W. 
Blencowe  and  M.  A.  Lower,  and  formed  the  subject  of  a  paper 
which  was  added  to  the  collections  of  the  Sussex  Archaeological 
Society  in  1859. 

VOL.  ccxci.    NO.  3047.  c 


18 


The  Gentleman  s  Magazine, 


In  East  Hothly,  which  ronxied  the  centre  of  a  district  bounded 
on  one  side  by  the  sea  and  on  the  other  by  a  swampy,  ill-drained 
land  intersected  by  almost  impassable  roads,  Thomas  Turner  carried 
on  the  business  oT  general  shopkeeper,  a  trade  which,  it  has  been 
whispered,  has  been  the  foundation  of  the  fortunes  of  many  well- 
to-do  Sussex  families  of  to-day.  The  old  Sussex  mercer  was  the 
precursor  of  the  "stores"  and  the  "universal  provider"  of  the 
present  day  ;  he  dealt  in  e\erj'thing,  from  a  flat-iron  to  a  coffin  ;  he 
was  grocer,  draper,  haberdasher,  hatter,  clothier,  druggist,  iron- 
monger, stationer,  glover,  undertaker,  &c 

There  is  an  old  Weald  of  Sussex  story  which  relates  how  that  a 
Londoner,  amused  at  the  miscellaneous  business  carried  on  at  one  of 
ll\ese  local  stores,  determined  to  pose  its  proprietor  by  asking  for 
something  which  he  could  not  supply.  "Well,  Mr.  Smith,"  he 
began,  "  you  sell  everything,  don't  you  ?  "  *'  Not  everything,  sir," 
replied  Mr.  Smith,  "  but  a  good  many  things."  "  Well,"  said  the 
Londoner,  "  I  want  a  second-hand  pulpit ;  you  can't  supply  that,  I 
suppose?"  '*Wcll,  yes,  sir,  I  can,"  answered  Smith,  "for  our 
church  has  been  new-pewed  lately,  and  as  I'm  churchwarden,  I 
happen  just  now  to  have  a  second-hand  pulpit  left  in  stock." 

I  believe  the  stor)-  has  of  late  years  changed  its  venue  to  West- 
bourne  Grove,  and  been  modified  to  suit  the  altered  conditions  ;  but 
this  is  the  true  and  original  version,  which  was  an  ancient  tradition  a 
century  ago. 

Whether  Thomas  Turner's  trade  was  as  varied  as  this  docs  not 
appear  from  the  diary,  but  if  we  may  trust  its  accuracy,  business  was 
ver)-  dull  during  the  greater  part  of  llic  eleven  years  (February  1754 
to  July  1765)  over  which  the  record  extends,  entry  after  entry  being 
devoted  to  bitter  complaints  of  bad  trade  and  doleful  forebodings  as 
to  what  would  become  of  him  and  his  family.  It  seems  probable 
that  Thomas  Turner  was  somewhat  of  a  croaker,  given  to  look  on 
the  gloomy  side  of  things,  or  else  that  in  the  latter  years  of  his  life, 
after  he  had  given  up  dlar>' -keeping,  his  business  must  have  con- 
siderably improved — possibly  with  the  help  of  the  money  brought 
to  him  by  his  second  wife,  for  it  is  certain  that  on  his  death  in  1789 
he  left  a  very  flourishing  esLiblishment  to  his  son,  whose  turn-over 
tveragcd  from  ^50,000  to  ^^70,000  a  year  for  many  years. 

Thomas  Turner,  the  diarist,  was  a  native  of  Groombridgc,  in 
Kent,  where  he  was  born  in  1 728.  He  is  said  to  have  been  a  man 
of  good  family.  At  any  rate  his  tastes  were  probably  far  in  advance 
of  those  of  the  majority  of  his  contemporaries.  He  was  an  omnivo- 
rous reader,  and  in  the  course  of  a  few  weeks  he  mentions  having 


A  Sussex  P€pys,  19 

lead  Gay's  poems,  Stewart  "On  the  Supreme  Being,"  "The  Whole 
Duty  of  Man,"  "Paradise  Lost  and  Regained,"  Tillotson's 
"Sermons,"  "Othello,"  "The  Universal  Magazine,"  Thomson's 
"Seasons,"  Young's  "Night  Thoughts,"  Tournefort's  "Voyage 
to  the  Levant,"  and  "  Peregrine  Pickle." 

His  criticisms  were  sometimes  amusing  and  often  just.  "  Clarissa 
Harlowe"  he  looked  upon  "as  a  very  well  wrote  thing,  though  it 
must  be  allowed  to  be  too  prolix,"  but  the  emotional  side  of  him 
was  touched  when  his  wife  read  him  the  account  of  poor  Clarissa's 
funeral,  and  he  breaks  out  with  "  Oh  !  may  the  Supreme  Being  give 
me  grace  to  lead  my  life  in  such  a  manner  as  my  exit  may  in  some 
measure  be  like  that  divine  creature's." 

It  is  impossible  to  acquit  Mr.  Turner  of  a  certain  amount  of 
pose.  It  was  a  hard-drinking  time,  and  the  good  Thomas  drank  as 
hard  as  any,  and  he  was  as  frank  about  his  misdoings  as  Pepys  him- 
self, but  he  had  always  one  eye  on  the  future  possible  reader  of  his 
lucubrations,  so  the  over-night's  debauch  was  always  made  the  text 
for  a  moral  and  improving  discourse,  the  fervour  of  which  seems  to 
be  in  exact  proportion  to  the  severity  of  the  headache  the  potations 
had  left  behind  them.  Possibly  Thomas  Turner  was  not  altogether 
a  humbug ;  a  man  of  his  literary  tastes  must  have  found  the  amuse- 
ments of  his  neighbours  and  friends  somewhat  unsatisfying,  but  he 
never  seems  to  have  had  the  strength  of  mind  to  resist  temptation. 
"Video  meliora  proboque,  deteriora  sequor"  might  have  been  his 
motto,  had  he  understood  Latin,  which  it  does  not  appear  that  he  did. 

He  started  his  diary  with  the  best  intentions  in  the  world  : 

"Sunday,  February  8,  1754. — As  I  by  experience  find  how  much 
more  conducive  it  is  to  my  health,  as  well  as  pleasantness  and 
serenity  to  my  mind,  to  live  in  a  low  moderate  rate  of  diet,  and  as  I 
know  I  shall  never  be  able  to  comply  therewith  in  so  strickt  a  manner 
as  I  should  chuse  by  thd  unstable  and  over  easyness  of  my  temper, 
I  think  it  therefore  fit  to  draw  up  Rules  of  proper  Regimen,  which  I 
do  in  the  manner  and  form  following,  which  I  hope  I  shall  always 
have  the  strictest  regard  to  follow,  as  I  think  they  are  not  inconsis- 
tent with  either  religion  or  morality." 

The  Regimen  thus  formally  prescribed  was  exact  in  every 
particular,  leaving  little  to  chance  or  accident :  to  rise  early,  to 
breakfast  between  seven  and  eight  o'clock,  to  dine  between  twelve 
and  one,  and  never  to  go  to  bed  later  than  ten  o'clock  were  funda- 
mental conditions.  At  dinner  he  was  to  eat  sparingly  of  meat,  but 
plentifully  of  garden-stuff ;  supper  was  to  consist  of  weak  broth, 
water-gruel  or  milk  pottage,  varied  occasionally  with  a  fruit  pie. 

c  a 


20 


The  GeniiemaH^s  Magazine. 


As  regards  the  extent  of  his  potations  Mr.  Turner  was  pedanti- 
cally exact.  Whether  at  home,  or  in  company  abroad,  he  pledged 
himself  never  to  drink  more  than  four  glasses  of  strong  beer  ;  one  to 
toast  the  King's  health,  the  second  to  the  Royal  Family,  the  third  to 
all  friends,  and  the  fourth  to  the  pleasure  of  the  company.  If  there 
were  wine  or  punch  the  aUowancc  was  to  be  eight  glasses,  each  glass 
to  hold  no  more  than  half  a  quarter  of  a  pint. 

Alas  for  good  resolutions !  At  this  time  Turner  combined  the 
duties  of  a  schoolmaster  writh  his  ordinary  business.  He  seems 
hardly  to  have  been  a  judicious  instTxictor  of  youth,  if  one  may  judge 
from  an  entry  on  June  20,  which,  being  his  birthday,  he  celebrated 
by  treating  his  scholars  to  five  quarts  of  strong  beer.  Turner  gave 
up  his  school  in  1756. 

Mrs.  Turner's  family  appear  to  have  lived  at  Lewes,  her  constant 
visits  to  which  place  were  very  distasteful  to  her  husband,  who  keeps 
careful  record  of  their  domestic  bickerings  on  this  subject.  "Oh  1  " 
he  writes  on  June  30,  "what  happiness  must  there  be  in  the 
married  slate  when  there  is  a  sincere  regard  on  both  sides,  and  each 
partie  truly  satisfied  with  each  other's  merits !  But  it  is  impossible 
far  tongue  or  pen  to  express  the  uneasiness  that  attends  the  contrary." 

On  another  occasion  he  laments  :  "  Alas  !  what  can  be  said  of  a 
woman's  temper  and  thought  ?  Business  and  family  advantage  must 
submit  to  their  pride  and  pleasure  ;  but  though  I  mention  this  of 
women,  it  may,  perhaps,  be  as  justly  applyed  to  men ;  but  most 
people  are  blind  to  their  own  follies. "    Surely  a  hnndsome  admission. 

Much  of  this  domestic  strife  seems,  in  his  own  words,  to  have 
been   "  fermented  "  by  other    parties,   notably   by   the   inevitable 
motherin-law,  Mrs,  Slater,  whom  he  describes  as  a  very  Xantippe, 
"havinga  great  volubility  of  tongue  forinvcctive,  and  especially  if  I  am 
the  subject,  though  alas  !  what  the  good  woman  wants  with  nic  I  know     g 
not,  unless  it  be  that  1  liave  offended  her  by  being  too  careful  of  h^^^l 
daughter,  who,  poor  crcatm-e,  has  enjoyed  but  little  pleasure  in  \\m^ 
marriage  state,  being  almost  continually,  to  our  great  misfortune, 
afflicted  with  illness." 

One  of  the  earliest  entries  in  the  diary  refers  to  his  carrj'ing  down 
'some  shagg  for  a  pair  of  breeches  for  Mr.  Porter."  Tlic  Kev. 
Richard  Porter,  M.A.,  had  been  inducted  lo  the  living  of  Easi 
Hothly  in  1742-  He  wji*  a  man  of  learning,  and  it  is  on  record  that 
he  engaged  Waller  Gale,  the  schoolmaster  of  MayAcld,  lo  tran&aribo 
"  A  Translation  from  I.onginus  of  Sappho/'  which  he  had  an 
translated  into  Sapphic  vcnic.  to  the  sound,  time,  and  metre  with 
original  Grctrk. 


A  Sussex  Pepys,  21 

With  r^;ard  to  the  parson's  breeches,  it  appears  that  in  East 
Hothly  there  existed  a  special  provision  for  the  furnishing  of  these 
necessary  items  of  the  clerical  attire.  Some  generations  before,  a 
wealthy  and  benevolent  lady  in  the  parish  having  observed  that  her 
pastor's  nether  garments  were  in  an  unseemly  state  of  disrepair, 
[ffesented  him  and  his  successors  for  ever  with  a  piece  of  woodland, 
attached  to  the  glebe,  the  proceeds  from  which  were  to  be  devoted 
to  the  repair  and  renewal  of  the  vicar's  garments. 

Probably  the  Reverend  Richard  Porter  stood  less  in  need  of  the 
help  of  the  "  Breeches  Wood,"  as  it  was  called,  than  many  of  his 
predecessors,  since  he  married  the  daughter  and  co-heiress  of  a 
Yorkshire  gentleman  of  fortune. 

Mrs.  Porter  seems  at  one  time  to  have  been  disposed  to  give 
herself  airs  towards  the  good  people  of  East  Hothly,  and  her 
behaviour,  on  one  occasion  at  least,  deeply  offended  Mr.  Turner. 

On  May  20,  1756,  he  writes  :  "  This  day  I  went  to  Mr.  Porter's 
to  inform  him  that  the  liveiy  lace  was  not  come,  when  I  think  Mrs. 
Porter  treated  me  with  as  much  imperious  and  scornful  usage  as  if 
she  had  been,  what  I  think  she  is,  more  of  a  Turk  and  infidel  than  a 
Christian,  and  I  an  abject  slave." 

It  is  satisfactory  to  know  that  the  lady  unbent  later  on,  and, 
indeed,  went  to  extraordinary  lengths  of  affability,  as  will  appear 
from  an  entry  in  the  diary  on  February  25  in  the  following  year: 
"  This  morning,  about  six  o'clock,"  he  writes,  "just  as  my  wife  was 
got  to  bed,  we  were  awaked  by  Mrs.  Porter,  who  pretended  she 
wanted  some  cream  of  tartar;  but  as  soon  as  my  wife  got  out  of 
bed  she  vowed  she  should  come  down.  She  found  Mr.  Porter, 
Mr.  Fuller,  and  his  wife,  with  a  lighted  candle  and  part  of  a  bottle  of 
wine  and  a  glass.  The  next  thing  was  to  have  me  downstairs,  which, 
being  apprised  of,  I  fastened  my  door.  Upstairs  they  came,  and 
threatened  to  break  it  open ;  so  I  ordered  the  boys  to  open  it,  when 
they  poured  into  my  room,  and,  as  modesty  forbid  me  to  get  out  of 
bed,  so  I  refrained ;  but  their  immodesty  permitted  them  to  draw 
me  out  of  bed,  as  the  common  phrase  is,  topsy-turvey ;  but,  however, 
at  the  intercession  of  Mr.  Porter,  they  gave  me  time  to  put  on  my 
wife's  petticoats;  and  in  this  manner  they  made  me  dance,  without 
shoes  and  stockings,  untill  they  had  emptied  the  bottle  of  wine  and 
also  a  bottle  of  my  beer.  .  .  .  About  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon 
they  found  their  way  to  their  respective  homes,  beginning  to  be  a 
little  serious  and,  in  my  opinion,  ashamed  of  their  stupid  enterprise 
and  drunken  preambulation.  Now,  let  anyone  call  in  reason  to  his 
assistance  and  seriously  reflect  on  what  I  have  before  recited,  and 


23 


The  Gentleman' s  Magaziiu. 


thef  will  join  with  me  in  thinking  that  the  precepts  delivered  from 
the  pulpit  on  Sunday,  though  delivered  with  the  greatest  ardour, 
must  lose  a  great  deal  of  their  efficacy  by  such  examples." 

A  few  days  later — it  being  Sunday,  March  3 — "  We  bad  as  good 
a  sermon  as  I  ever  heard  Mr.  Porter  preach,  it  being  against  swearing." 
Mr.  Porter  seems,  like  the  Puntans  of  "  Hudibras,"  to  have  com- 
pounded for  the 

(ins  lie  was  ioclinetl  to, 
By  damnine  those  he  bad  no  tnimi  (o. 


Swearing  he  objected  to,  but  getting  drunk,  wnthout  using  bad 
language,  he  called  "  innocent  mirth ;  but  1,  in  opinion,"  says  the 
moral  Turner,  "  differ  much  therefrom." 

The  same  party  met  the  same  week  at  Mr.  Joseph  Fuller's,  where 
"we  continued  drinking  like  horses,  ajj  the  vulgar  phrase  is,  and 
singing  till  many  of  us  were  very  drunk,  and  then  we  went  to  dancing 
and  pulling  of  wigs,  caps,  and  hats ;  and  thus  wc  continued  in  this 
frantic  manner,  behaving  more  like  mad  people  than  they  that  profess 
the  name  of  Christians.  Whether  this  is  consistent  to  the  wise  saying 
of  Solomon,  let  any  one  judge:  'Wine  is  a  mocker,  strong  drink  is 
raging,  and  he  that  is  deceived  thereby  is  not  wise.' " 

Following  upon  this  was  an  evening  of  "  innocent  mirth  "  at  the 
Reverend  Mr.  Porter's,  a  pathetic  comment  upon  which  appears  in 
the  diary  entry  of  the  following  day  : 

"  At  home  all  day.    Ver>'  piteous  I  " 

The  round  of  orgies  was  completed  by  a  meeting  of  the  same 
party  at  Turner's  own  house— an  invitation  affair  this  time,  not  ai 
surprise-part)-  like  the  last.     After  which  he  writes  : 

"  Now  I  hope  all  revelling  for  this  season  is  over ;  and  may  I 
never  more  be  discomposed  with  so  much  drink,  or  by  the  noise  of 
an  obstrepertous  multitude,  but  that  I  may  calm  my  troubled  mind 
and  soothe  my  disturbed  conscience." 

Lest  it  be  supposed  that  there  was  anything  very  unclcrical  in  the 
conduct  of  Mr.  Porter,  according  to  the  customs  of  his  time,  it  may 
be  well  to  (juote  here  an  entry  of  a  later  date,  referring  to  another  pillar 
of  the  Church  : — 

"  Mr.  ,  the  curate  of  T^ughton,  came  to  the  shop  in  the 
forenoon,  and  he  having  bought  some  things  of  me  (and  I  could 
wish  he  had  paid  for  them),  dined  with  me,  and  also  staid  in  the 
afternoon  till  he  got  in  liquor,  and  being  so  complaisant  as  to  keep 
him  company,  I  was  quite  drunk.  How  I  do  detest  myself  for  being 
so  foolish." 


A  Sussex  Pepys, 


Mr.Turner^s  moral  remarks  and  pious  ejacubtions,  whether  they  be 
aincete  or  not,  add  at  limes  immensely  to  the  humour  of  his  nfurative. 

Here  is  a  gem : 

**  December  25lh. — This  being  Christmas  Day,  myself  and  wife 
at  church  in  the  morning.  We  stayed  the  Communion ;  my  wife 
gave  td, ;  but  they  not  asking  mc^  I  gave  nothing.  Ob  !  may  wc 
increase  in  faJth  and  good  works,  and  maintain  the  good  intentions 
wc  have  this  day  taken  up.** 

Mr.  Turner's  experiences  as  overseer  and  churchwarden  throw 
an  interesting  light  upon  the  conduct  of  parish  business  in  those 
days.  On  April  19,  1756,  he  was  chosen  overseer,  and  on  the 
sist  went  to  the  audit,  "  and  came  home  dnuk  \  but  I  think  never 
to  exceed  the  bounds  of  moderation  more." 

It  seems  to  have  l)cen  the  custom  for  the  parish  ofliccrs  to  make 
raids,  during  the  service,  upon  the  public-houses;  thus  on  Sunday, 
April  25,  "as  soon  as  prayers  were  over,  Mr.  French  and  I  went 
tand  searched  the  public-houses.  At  Francis  Turner's  we  found  a 
an  and  his  wife ;  they  seemed  a  very  sober  sort  of  people,  and  not 
a-drinking,  so  wc  did  not  meddle  with  them." 

On  another  occasion,  while  the  Psalms  were  being  sung,  he  and 

the  headborough  again  drew  the  ale-houses  blank,  but  they  caught 

tic  barber  "  exercising  his  trade  " ;  but  as  it  was  a  first  offence  they 

□rgave  him.    They  were  severely  Sabbatarians  these  pious  Sussex 

jllipplcrs. 

The  year  after  his  election  as  overseer  Mr.  Turner  was  chosen 
diurchwarden,  for  which  he  paid  4J.  6^.,  and  got  home  about 
to  P.M. — "Thank  God,  very  safe  and  sober  ! " 

Vestry  meetings  in  those  days,  as  occasionally  at  the  present 
lime,  were  conducted  with  a  good  deal  of  heat.  "  We  had  several 
warm  arguments  at  the  vestry  today,"  he  writes,  "  and  several 
volHes  of  execrable  oaths  oftcntinics  redounded  from  allmost  all 
parts  of  the  room.  A  most  rude  and  shocking  thing  at  publick 
Dcetings." 

The  follon-ing  account  of  the  way  in  which  an  undesirable 
parishioner  was  got  rid  of  is  instructive  :  "  I  went  down  to  Jones's 
to  the  publick  vestry.  It  was  the  unanimous  consent  of  all  present 
to  give  to  Tho.  Daw,  upon  condition  that  be  should  buy  the  house 
in  the  parish  of  Waldron  for  which  he  bath  been  treating,  by 
reason  tliat  he  would  then  be  an  inhabitant  of  Waldron,  and  dear 
of  OUT  parish,  lialfc  a  tun  of  iron,  ^10;  a  chaldron  of  coals,  &:c., 
j^3  ;  in  cash,  j^S  ;  and  find  him  the  sum  of  j£^3o,  for  which  be  Is 
10  pay  interest,  for  to  buy  the  said  house  ;  a  fine  present  for  a  man 


24 


The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 


that  has  already  about  j^So  I  but  yet,  I  believe  it  is  a  very  prudent 
step  in  the  parish,  for  he  being  a  man  with  but  one  leg,  and  very 
contrar}'  witball,  and  his  wife  being  entirely  deprived  of  that  great 
Messing,  eyesight,  ihere  is  great  room  to  suspect  there  would,  one 
lime  or  other,  happen  a  great  charge  to  the  parish,  there  being  a 
very  increasing  family  ;  and  I  doubt  the  man  is  none  of  the  most 
prudent,  he  having  followed  smuggling  very  much  in  time  past, 
which  has  brought  him  into  a  trifling  way  of  life." 

Another  instance  of  this  free  and  easy  way  of  dealing  with 
public  money  is  aflbrded  by  the  calling  of  a  vestry  meeting  in  the 
churchyard,  one  Sunday  after  service,  to  dctcnnine  whether  the  sum 
of  six  guineas  should  be  lent,  on  the  parish  account,  to  Francis 
Turner,  to  enable  him  to  pay  a  debt  for  which  he  was  threatened 
with  arrest  on  the  Monday.  The  meeting  unanimously  decided 
that  Francis  should  have  the  money,  which  was  neighbourly,  if,  to 
us,  it  appears  irregular.  Arrest  for  debt  was  no  joke  in  those  days, 
however,  and  our  Thomas  Turner,  who  seems  to  have  been  a  kind- 
hearted  fellow,  was  sorely  perplexed  throughout  several  days  of  his 
diary,  as  to  whether  he  had  not  been  guilty  of  oppression  in  putting  into 
the  law)-cr's  hands  a  fellow  who  had  owed  him  a  debt  for  four  years. 

Recruiting  for  the  Navy  was  a  sweetly  simple  process  then : 
'*  Master  Hookc  and  myself,"  he  writes,  "  went  and  searched  John 
Jones's  and  Prawle's  [probably  two  ale-houses]  in  order  to  see  if 
there  was  any  disorderly  fellows,  that  he  might  have  them  to  the 
setting  to  morrow  in  order  to  send  them  to  sea.  We  found  none  J 
tiiat  wf  thought  proper  to  send."  \ 

It  would  be  interesting  to  have  had  Master  Thomas  Turner's 
exact  d*;finition  of  "  a  disorderly  fellow." 

The  practice  of  limiting  the  time  of  an  auction  by  the  burning  of 
a  candle  obtained  at  this  time.     In  this  year  (1756),  Mr.  Turner  at- 
tended a  sale  of  some  property  in  the  parish  of  St.  Michael's,  Lewes 
The  candle  was  lighted  at  four  o'clock,  and  burnt  until  eight — four 
hours  being  spent  in  the  disposal  of  property  worth  ;^42o. 

Trade  was  bad  that  year.  He  exclaims  against  the  dearness  of^ 
all  proNisions,  wheat  being  i«.  ft  bushel,  barley  Jj.,  beef  ts.  a 
stone,  mutton  3^.  a  pound.  "  Oh  1  how  dull  is  trade,  how  very 
scarce  is  money.  Never  did  I  know  so  bad  a  time  before.  What 
shall  I  do?  Work  I  cannot,  and  honest  I  will  be,  if  the  Almighty 
will  give  me  grace." 

The  echoes  of  events  in  the  great  world  reached  East  Hothly^ 
albeit  slowly.  From  the  following  it  appears  that  War  Office  delays 
and  mismanagcoicnt  are  not  of  modem  invention. 


A  Sussex  Pefys.  25 

"  i8th  July,  1756.— I  this  day  heard  of  the  loss  of  Fort  St  Philip 
and  the  whole  island  of  Minarco  (Minorca),  after  being  possessed  by 
the  English  nation  forty^even  years,  and  after  bemg  defended  ten 
weeks  and  one  day  by  that  truly  brave  and  heroic  man,  General 
Blakeney,  and  at  last  was  obliged  to  surrender  for  want  of  provisions 
and  ammunition.  No  man,  I  think,  can  deserve  a  brighter  character 
in  the  annals  of  fame  like  this.  But,  oh  I  he  was,  as  one  may  justly 
say,  abandoned  by  his  country,  who  never  sent  him  any  succouiA 
Never  did  the  English  nation  suffer  a  greater  blot  Oh  1  my  country, 
my  country !  Oh,  Albian,  Albian !  I  doubt  thou  are  tottering  on 
the  brink  of  ruin  and  desolation  this  day  !  The  nation  is  all  in  a 
foment  upon  account  of  losing  dear  Minorca." 

Here  are  one  or  two  entries  made  about  this  time : 

"August  22nd. — I  sett  off  for  Pittdown,  where  I  saw  Charles 
Di^ens  and  James  Fowle  run  twenty  rods  for  one  guinea  each.  I 
got  never  a  bet,  but  very  drunk." 

The  entertainment  seems  to  have  been  kept  up  all  night : 

"  23rd. — Came  home  in  the  forenoon,  not  quite  sober.  At  home 
all  day,  and  I  know  I  behaved  more  like  an  ass  than  any  human 
being — doubtless  not  like  one  tliat  calls  himself  a  Christian.  Oh  I 
how  unworthy  am  I  of  that  name  ! " 

Mr.  Turner  could  be  quietly  sarcastic  about  his  associates  some- 
times : 

"  Was  fought  this  day  at  Jones's  a  main  of  cocks  between  the 
gentlemen  of  Hothly  and  Pevensey.  Query.  Is  there  a  gentleman 
in  either  of  the  places  that  was  consernd  ?  " 

The  hop-picking  season  in  Sussex  was  inaugurated  with  the 
purchase  and  presentation  of  a  neck-cloth  for  the  pole-puller.  This 
was  of  some  showy  colour,  which  made  him  conspicuous  in  the 
garderL  The  hop-pickers  subscribed  for  the  purchase,  and  the 
ceremony,  like  all  the  rest  of  the  country  celebrations,  was  reckoned 
a  fit  "  excuse  for  a  glass." 

"  September  20th. — In  the  even  Mr.  Porter's  hop-pickers  bought 
their  pole-puller's  neckcloth." 

"September  23rd. — Holland  hop-pickers  bought  their  pole- 
puller's  neckcloth  ;  and,  poor  wretches,  many  of  them  insensible." 

Here  is  an  account  of  a  typical  expedition  to  a  neighbouring 
town; 

"Monday,  October  17. — Tho.  Currant  and  I  set  out  on  our 
journey  to  Steyning,  and  arrived  there  in  the  even.  Next  day  f 
settled  with  Mr.  Burfield ;  after  this  we  must  needs  walk  up  to 
Steyning  town,  where  he  had  us  about  from  one  of  his  friends' 


36 


Th^  Gentlemans  Magazine. 


houses  to  another  untill  we  became  not  verj'  sober ;  but,  however, 
we  got  back  to  Mr.  Burticld's  and  dined  there.  After  dinner,  think- 
ing myself  capable  to  undertake  such  a  journey,  I  came  away  leaving 
Tho.  Durrant  there,  who  actual  was  past  riding,  or  amost  anything 
else.  I  arrived  home  through  the  providence  of  God,  very  well  and  safe, 
about  seven  ;  and,  to  give  Mr.  Burfield  his  just  character  in  the  light 
wherein  he  appears  to  me,  he  is  a  very  good-tempered  man,  a  kind 
and  alTectionate  husband,  an  indulgent  and  tender  parent,  benevolent 
and  humane  to  a  great  degree,  and  who  seems  to  have  a  great 
capacity  and  judgment  in  his  business  ;  but,  after  all,  a  man  very 
much  given  to  drink."    This  comes  wcU  from  Thomas  Turner. 

The  Turners'  matrimonial  felicity  does  not  scera  to  have  become 
more  assured  as  time  went  on.  Quarrels  were  frequent,  and  recon- 
ciliations followed  close  upon  them.  On  one  occasion,  all  the  family 
having  taken  the  Sacrament  together,  he  and  his  wife  resolved  "to 
forsake  their  sins  and  to  become  better  Christians,  and  to  bear  with 
each  other's  infirmities,  and  live  in  peace  with  all  mankind." 
Thomas  Davey,  happening  to  drop  in  the  same  evening,  Mr. 
Turner  read  him  six  of  Tillotson's  sermons,  which  seems  rather  hard 
upon  Thomas  Davey. 

In  common  with  many  other  respectable  persons  of  his  time, 
Thomas  Turner  rt^arded  church-going  and  a  more  or  less  scrupulous 
obser\'ancc  of  the  Fourth  Commandment  as  a  cloak  for  a  good  many 
other  irregularities  of  conduct.  He  did  not  always  attend  church, 
but  he  was  always  severe  upon  himself  for  the  omission.  One 
Sunday  he  writes : 

"  I  was  at  home  all  day,  but  not  at  church.  Oh,  fye  !  No  just 
reason  for  not  being  there." 

Another  time  he  says  : 

"No  service  at  our  church  in  the  morning  or  afternoon.  I 
dined  on  a  roasted  goose  and  applesauce ;  I  drunk  tea  with  Mr. 
Carman  and  his  family.  This  is  not  the  right  use  that  Sunday 
should  be  applied  to.     No,  it  is  not." 

Notwithstanding  his  respect  for  dignitaries,  he  is  very  severe,  in 
his  diary,  upon  the  Duke  of  Newcastle,  who  was  wont  to  bring  a 
large  party  of  friends  to  llalland  House,  and  to  spend  Sunday  in 
feasting.  This  desecration  of  the  Sabbath,  coupled  with  the  fact 
that  the  Duke  carried  several  French  cooks  in  his  train,  induced  some 
very  strong  remarks,  although,  with  Mr.  Turner's  usual 
plaisance,"  he  seems  to  have  been  a  frequent  visitor  at  Halland 
where  he  was  on  friendly  terms  with  the  Duke's  steward  and  man 
business,  Mr.  Coates. 


I 
I 


com-  H 
land,  ^1 
an  of  ^1 


A  Sussex  Pepys.  27 

Christmas  festirities  b^an  early  and  continued  late  then,  as  we 
banily  hear  the  last  of  them  before  March. 

The  6rst  of  the  parties  recorded  in  1757  was  on  January  26, 
when  they  went  to  Whyly,  and  Mr.  Turner  is  careful  to  record  that 
they  came  home  "  I  may  say,  quite  sober,"  although  he  proceeds  to 
explain  that  he  had  contracted  a  slight  impediment  in  his  speech, 
"  occasioned  by  the  fumes  of  the  liquor  operating  too  furiously  upon 
my  brain." 

On  February  snd  they  supped  at  Mr.  Fuller's  and  spent  the 
evening  with  a  great  deal  of  mirth.  "Tho.  Fuller  brought  my 
wife  home  upon  his  back." 

A  second  evening's  entertainment  at  Whyly  does  not  seem  to 
have  borne  the  morning's  reflection  quite  so  well : 

"  We  played  at  bra^  the  first  part  of  the  even.  After  ten  we 
went  to  supper,  on  four  boiled  chicken,  four  boiled  ducks,  minced 
veal,  sausi^es,  cold  roast  goose,  chicken  pasty  and  ham.  After 
supper  our  behaviour  was  far  from  that  of  serious  harmless  mirth;  it 
was  downright  obstreperious,  mixed  with  a  great  deal  of  folly  and 
stupidity.  Our  diversion  was  dancing  or  jumping  about,  without  a 
violin  or  any  musick,  singing  of  foolish  healths,  and  drinking  all  the 
time  as  fast  as  it  could  be  poured  down ;  and  the  parson  of  the 
parish  was  one  among  the  mixed  multitude.  If  conscience  "  (here 
follows  the  inevitable  moral  reflection),  "  if  conscience  dictates  right 
from  wrong,  as  doubtless  it  sometimes  does,  mine  is  one  that  I  may 
say  is  soon  offended ;  for  I  must  say  I  am  always  very  uneasy  at 
such  behaviour,  thinking  it  not  like  the  behaviour  of  the  primitive 
Christians,  which  I  imagine  was  most  in  conformity  to  our  Saviour's 
gospel.  Nor  would  I  be  thought  to  be  either  a  cynick  or  a  stoick, 
but  let  social  improving  discourse  pass  round  the  company.  About 
three  o'clock,  finding  myself  to  have  as  much  liquor  as  would  do  me 
good,  I  slipt  away  unobserved,  leaving  my  wife  to  make  my  excuse. 
Though  I  was  very  far  from  sober,  I  came  home,  thank  God,  very 
safe  and  well,  without  even  tumbling"  (this  was  apparently  an 
exceptional  experience);  "and  Mr.  French's  servant  brought  my  wife 
home  at  ten  minutes  past  five  "  (probably  upon  his  back). 

Notwithstanding  the  frequent  recurrence  of  these  jollifications 
the  badness  of  the  times  weighed  more  and  more  heavily  upon  his 
spirits.  "A  very  melancholy  time,"  he  writes  on  March  23, 
*'  occasioned  by  the  deamess  of  corn,  though  not  proceeding  from 
a  real  scarcity  but  from  the  iniquitous  practice  of  ingrossers,  fore- 
stalling,  &c." 

In  July  of  the  same  year  he  complains  of  "  a  most  prodigious 


28 


The  Gentleman's  Magazine, 


melancboHy  time,"  which  he  atlributes  to  the  increase  of  luxury, 
specially  exemplified  in  the  too  frequent  use  of  spirituous  liquors,  and 
"  the  exorbitant  practice  of  tea-drinking,  which  tias  corrupted  the 
morals  of  people  of  almost  every  rank."  As  green  lea  was  then  14J. 
a  pound  and  more,  and  bohea  12^.  and  lor,  it  seems  hardly  likely 
that  the  "  exorbitant  practice  "  can  have  descended  very  low  in  the 
social  scale. 

The  potations  of  which  Mr.  Turner  writes  so  often  were 
probably  in  the  main  confined  to  strong  ale.  His  objection  to  the 
excessive  use  of  spirits  is  frequently  expressed,  and  in  somewhat 
more  sincere  a  tone  than  his  MawTvorm-Iike  lamentations  over  his 
own  backslidings.  Curiously  enough  tea  and  spirit  drinking  are 
invariably  coupled  in  his  complaints  about  the  growth  of  luxurious 
and  intemperate  habits.  Two  years  later,  we  find  him  remarking 
that  "  Custom  has  brought  tea  and  spirituous  liquors  so  much  into 
fashion  that  I  dare  be  bold  to  say  they  often,  too  often,  prove  our 
ruin,  and  I  doubt  often,  by  the  too  frequent  use  of  both,  entail  a 
weakness  upon  our  progeny." 

On  October  20,  1758,  he  "  read  the  *  Extraordinary  Gazette '  for 
Wednesday,  which  gives  an  account  of  our  army  in  America,  under 
the  command  of  General  Woolf,  beating  the  French  army  under 
General  Montcalm,  near  the  city  of  Quebec,  wherein  both  the 
generals  were  killed  and  the  FnglJsh  General  Monkton,  who  took 
the  command  after  General  Woolf  was  killed,  was  shot  through  the 
body,  but  is  like  to  do  well ;  as  also  the  surrender  of  the  city  of 
Quebec.  Oh  !  what  a  pleasure  it  is  to  every  tnie  Briton  to  see 
what  success  it  pleased  Almighty  God  to  bless  his  Majesty's  arms, 
they  having  success  at  this  time  in  Europe,  Asia,  Africa,  and 
America.'* 

At  Halland,  in  December,  Hawke's  victory  over  the  French 
fleet  was  celebrated,  and  one  regrets  to  le.irn  that  Mr.  Turner  spent 
an  hour  and  a  half  trying  to  get  through  Mr.  l*ortcr's  wood  on  his 
way  home,  "the  liquor  opperating  so  much  in  the  head  that  It 
rendered  my  legges  useless," 

On  Sunday,  October  26,  of  the  year  following,  he  notes  the 
receipt  of  the  melancholy  news  of  the  death  of  "  the  King  and 
parent  of  our  most  happy  isle,  his  most  august  Majesty  George  II." 

Death  came  nearer  to  him  in  June  1761,  when  he  lost  his  wife, 
after  a  painful  illness  of  thirty-eight  weeks.  Poor  Peggy's  contrary 
ways  were  straightway  forgotten.  Like  "  the  incomparable  Mr. 
Young,"  he  cries,  "  let  them  whoever  lost  an  angel  pity  me."  With 
pardonable  self-deception   he  even  cheats  himself  into  the  belief 


A  Sussex  Pepys,  29 

that  they  lived  a  life  together  of  undisturbed  harmony,  and  in 
lamentiDg  over  his  fiiture  tipsy  bouts  he  even  ventures  to  suggest 
that  he  led  a  more  regular  life  in  "  dear  P^gy's  "  time. 

There  is  somewhat  of  a  sameness  in  the  diary  entries  for  some 
considerable  time,  laments  on  bad  trade,  sorrow  for  his  wife's  loss, 
and  records  of  drinking  bouts  with  moral  reflections  thereon  recur 
with  monotonous  r^;ularity. 

We  hear  incidentally  of  Thomas  Davy  again,  and  learn  with 
T^ret  that  he  apparently  benefited  little  by  his  severe  course  of 
Tillotson's  sermons. 

**  The  wife  of  Thos.  Davy  was  this  day  delivered  of  a  girl,  after 
being  married  only  six  months ;  two  people  whom  I  should  the 
least  have  suspected  of  so  indiscreet  an  act.  How  careful  should 
we  be  of  ourselves  in  this  particular,  &c.,  &c." 

However,  he  went  to  the  christening,  and  came  home  "  sober  I 
Oh  1  how  comfortable  does  that  word  sound  in  my  ears." 

Two  years  after  his  wife's  death  the  gossips  of  East  Hothly  were 
busying  themselves  with  rumours  of  his  second  marriage,  the  effects 
of  which  suggestion  are  amusingly  apparent  in  his  diary.  To  his 
first  denials  of  the  possibility  of  such  an  occurrence  follow  an  assur- 
ance that  he  has  not  made  any  resolution  to  live  single.  Presently, 
he  discovers  that  "  for  want  of  the  company  of  the  softer  sex  I  am 
become  extremely  awkward,  and  a  certain  roughness  of  disposition 
has  seized  on  my  mind,"  so  that  he  is  neither  agreeable  to  himself, 
nor  can  his  company  be  so  to  others. 

One  is  not  surprised,  therefore,  to  read  of  his  walking  over  to 
Lewes  one  Sunday  to  see  a  girl  to  whom  he  thought  of  paying  his 
addresses.  He  was  still  very  lukewarm  on  the  subject,  and  the 
young  lady  not  being  at  home,  he  had  only  his  walk  for  his  pains, 
which,  he  says,  "  was,  perhaps,  as  well." 

The  object  of  Mr.  Turner's  well-regulated  attachment,  Molly 
Hicks,  although  in  service  at  Lewes,  was  the  daughter  of  a  sub- 
stantial yeoman  at  Chiddingtey,  with  which  parish  the  family  was 
connected  for  many  generations,  and  had  some  considerable  expec- 
tations of  her  own. 

Three  months  after  his  abortive  visit  to  Lewes,  we  find  him 
visiting  Molly  at  her  father's  home,  where  the  ceremony  of  "sitting 
up"  was  gone  through. 

"  It  being  an  excessive  wet  and  windy  night,  I  had  the  oppor- 
tunity, sure  I  should  say  the  pleasure,  or,  perhaps,  some  might  say 
the  unspeakable  happiness,  to  set  up  with  Molly  Hicks,  or  my 
charmer,  all  night.     I  came  home  at  forty  minutes  past  five  in  the 


30 


The  Gentleman  s  MagazUu. 


morning — I  must  not  say  fatigued ;  no,  no,  that  could  not  be  ;  it 
could  only  be  a  little  sleepy  for  want  of  rest.  Well,  to  be  sure,  she 
13  a  most  clever  girl ;  but,  however,  to  be  serious  in  the  affair,  I 
certainly  esteem  the  girl,  and  iliink  she  appears  worthy  of  my 
esteem." 

Decidedly,  Thomas  was  not  a  rapturous  lover.  In  a  subsequent 
entry  in  his  diary  he  argues  with  himself  the  question  of  his 
marriage  in  as  judicial  a  manner  as  Fanurgc.  He  is  under  no 
illusions  as  to  the  lady's  attractions,  and  even  admits  her  virtues 
with  caution.  "The  girl,  I  believe,  as  far  as  I  can  discover,  is  a 
very  industrious,  sober  woman,  and  seemingly  endowed  with 
prudence  and  good- nature.  ...  As  to  her  person,  I  know  it  is 
plain  (so  is  my  own),  but  she  is  cleanly  in  her  person  and  dress, 
which  is  something  more  than  at  first  sight  it  may  appear  to  be, 
towards  happiness.  She  is,  [  think,  a  well-made  woman.  As  to  her 
education,  I  own  it  is  not  liberal,  but  she  has  good  sense  and  a 
desire  to  improve  her  mind,  &c.,  &c." 

This  being  almost  the  last  entry  \\\  the  diary,  one  cannot  help 
suspecting  that  the  charming  Molly  must  have  stumbled  upon  these 
indiscreet  outpourings  in  the  early  days  of  her  married  life,  and  have 
expressed  her  disapproval  of  the  practice  of  diaiy-making  with  a 
vigour  that  ensured  its  final  discontinuance. 

They  were  married  on  June  ig,  1765,  and  the  event  was  briefly 
recorded  on  July  3  following — the  final  entry  in  the  diarj'. 

"  Thank  God,"  he  concludes,  "  I  begin  once  more  to  be  a  little 
settled  and  am  happy  in  my  choice.  I  have,  it  is  true,  not  married 
a  learned  lady,  nor  Is  she  a  gay  one ;  but  I  trust  she  is  good  natured  " 
(he  is  still  apparently  uncertain  on  the  point).  "  As  to  her  fortune,  I 
shall  one  day  have  something  considerable,  and  there  seems  to  be 
rather  a  flowing  stream.  Well,  here  let  us  drop  the  subject,  and 
begin  a  new  one." 

So  we  leave  Thomas  Turner  in  the  full  tide  of  the  "flowing 
stream  "  that  bore  him  to  his  last  harbour  some  hundred  and  twelve 
years  ago. 

CHARUfS  COOPER. 


I 


THE  politiciil  philosopher  is  apt  to  suffer  from  one  of  two 
defects.  He  may  be  merely  a  student  without  actual  ex- 
perience of  the  working  of  those  principles  and  passions  which  he 
describes.  He  may  be  merely  a  polilician,  prejudiced  by  the  long 
habit  of  taking  sides  and  embittered  by  an  acquired  party  spirit. 
The  more  he  is  of  the  one,  the  less  he  is  sure  to  be  of  the  other ; 
and  he  will  rarely  be  like  the  ideal  physician  of  Plato,  who  could 
prescribe  for  mankind,  because  he  had  proved  their  diseases  in  his 
own  person.  He  will  prescribe  from  a  distant  and  uncertain  know- 
ledge^  or  be  will  himself  be  so  weakened  and  deformed  by  disease 
as  to  liave  lost  the  power  to  treat  it  properly. 

This  consideration,  trite  as  it  may  appear,  is  necessary  to  explain 
the  life  of  Lord  Bolingbroke.  The  world  remembers  him  not  only 
as  a  great  orator,  whose  speeches  it  is  our  loss  not  to  have  preserved; 
or  as  the  author  of  an  epoch-making  treaty  with  France;  or  as  the 
man  who  rode  the  Tory  party  to  an  unexampled  fall ;  or  as  the 
disappointed  {X)Iitician  who  pulled  for  many  years  the  strings  of  an 
active  opposition  to  Walpole.  It  remembers  him  also  as  the  man 
who  tried  to  construct  a  science  of  English  pohtics  ;  as  the  writer 
who  inspired  the  great  protest  of  the  eighteenth  century  against  the 
system  of  parly  government,  though  his  own  efforts  in  the  world  of 
politics  went  perhaps  to  perpetuate  that  system ;  as  the  man  who 
enunciated  doctrines  of  policy  that  have  become  the  heritage  and 
the  ideal  of  parties;  and,  above  all,  as  the  philosopher  whose 
speculations  profoundly  aflectcd  the  whole  course  of  eighteenth- 
century  thought.  But  Bolingbroke  was  a  philosopher  only  by  cir 
cumstance,  and  a  politician  by  nature.  There  were  times — and 
such  limes  will  occur  to  the  minds  of  all— when  he  pretended  to 
lire  of  the  strife  of  parties,  and  to  give  himself  to  study  in  some 
quiet  and  distant  country  retreat ;  and  perhaps  he  did  so  retire  for 
two  short  years  of  exclusion  from  power.  But  his  eye  was  always 
cast  back  to  the  tumultuous  world,  which  he  had  perforce  aban- 
doned.   He  may  have  tried — he  never  managed — to  be  merely  8^ 


3a 


The  Gentleman's  Magasine. 


student.  He  might  paint  his  haU  with  rakes  and  spades,  &5 
eni1)lems  nf  the  bucolic  life  which  he  intended  to  lead,  or  he  might 
write  in  an  affected  strain  of  the  pleasures  of  retirement  or  the 
consolations  of  exile ;  but  his  mind  was  all  the  while  on  protocols 
and  Embassies  and  coalitions.  He  talked  of  horses,  but  he  thought 
of  Cabinets,  His  studies  were  mere  cloaks  for  plots  and  schemes. 
They  were  the  dark  shade  from  which  he  winged  envenomed  shafts 
against  the  men  in  power. 

It  is  not  the  purpose  of  this  essay  to  dwell  minutely  on 
the  early  part  of  Bolingbroke's  career,  or,  indeed,  upon  any 
part  of  it,  the  facts  being  sufficiently  well  known  and,  indeed, 
essential  to  the  clear  understanding  of  English  history.  The 
glories  of  his  descent  he  shared  with  a  crowd  of  the  illustrious 
obscure ;  the  acts  of  his  own  life  have  given  him  a  place 
among  the  makers  of  modem  England  We  would  rather  attempt 
to  disentangle  from  contradictory  utterances  and  inconsistent 
actions  the  ideas  which  guided  a  life  so  long  engaged  in  politics. 
Bolingbroke  may,  to  use  the  words  of  Defoe -a  man  versed  in 
affairs  and  a  wise  critic  of  statesmen— have  done  all  merely  to  serve 
a  turn  ;  but  a  mind  like  his  could  not  but  adorn  the  meanest 
occasions  of  political  life.  His  motives  may  have  been  low  and 
narrow  ;  his  intellect  gave  them  at  least  the  colour  of  greatness  and 
wisdom,  and  he  built  on  them  a  superstructure  of  brilliant,  if  not 
aJways  convincing,  reflection. 

The  story  goes  that  Bolingbroke  was  put  into  Parliament  by  his 
family  to  wean  him  from  an  expensive  and  ruinous  mistress.  He 
was  at  the  lime  plain  Henry  St.  John  ;  and  he  entered  an  assembly 
which  had  won  power,  but  did  not  know  how  to  use  it,  and  which 
was  constantly  swayed  by  the  most  surprising  gusts  of  passion  and 
suspicion.  The  Revolution  had  placed  England  under  the  domi- 
nation of  Parliament ;  it  had  placed  Parliament  under  the  heel  of 
party ;  and  parties  were  often  filled  with  the  most  furious  spirit  of 
faction.  Of  this  spirit  Bolingbroke's  early  actions  are  a  sufficient 
and  instructive  example.  He  was  concerned  in  all  llic  insulting 
measures  by  which  the  Tory  party  embittered  the  latter  years  of 
King  William.  He  opposed  the  Partition  Treaties  \  he  opposed  the 
war  with  France ;  he  prayed  for  the  removal  of  the  Dutch  guards ; 
and  he  was  popular  with  the  country  gentlemeri,  who  had  come 
to  London  full  of  hostility  to  the  men  of  money  and  the  men  of 
trade.  From  this  care  of  the  landed  interest  he  swerved  but  little 
through  all  the  inconsistencies  of  his  life.  It  was  the  fijundation  ^i 
that  Tory  system  of  which  be  wrote  so  much  and  said  so  much  later. 


The  Potiiics  of  Bolingbroke^ 


k 


k 


I 


Yet  it  was  only  by  slow  degrees,  and  to  the  alaxm  of  her  wisest 
men,  that  England  fell  into  the  party  system  ;  and  it  is  not  surprising 
to  find  that  St  John,  Torj*  as  he  was,  attached  himself  to  the  man 
who  made  one  of  the  last  futile  efforts  to  rule  England  in  defiance 
of  the  new  idea.  He  was  an  especial  favourite  of  Marlborough; 
and  he  became  a  member  of  that  mixed  Ministry  in  support  of 
which  Marlborough  hoped  to  unite  all  Englishmen  till  the 
exorbitance  of  France  should  be  destroyed.  It  was  a  vain  attempt. 
Marlborough  himself  forgot  his  first  moderation^  and  strove  rather 
to  overwhelm  than  merely  to  enfeeble  France ;  parly  divisions  were 
too  wide  and  too  representative  of  irreconcilable  principles;  and 
statesmanship  was  obscured  by  the  rage  of  politicians.  Subtle 
intrigues  circled  round  the  bemldcred  Queen.  Whig  crossed  Tory, 
and  Tory  hinted  the  danger  of  the  Church.  The  dark,  silent^ 
solemn  plotter,  Robert  Harley,  won  upon  the  fears  of  the  Queen  till 
the  Whigs  by  a  lucky  chance  ejected  him  from  the  Ministry.  With 
him  went  St.  John,  weary  of  the  war  and  seeming  to  abandon 
politics  for  study  in  his  pleasant  retreat  at  Bucklcrsbury.  But  their 
exile  was  not  long.  Harley  still  held  the  threads  of  his  intrigue, 
and  stilt  wove  them  round  the  Queen.  His  cause  was  strengthened 
by  popular  weariness  of  the  war,  and  in  171 1  he  and  St.  John  were 
borne  back  to  power  on  the  flood  tide  of  a  Tory  reaction  which 
the  imagined  wrongs  of  the  Church  had  done  much  to  raise. 

There  is  no  more  melancholy  story  in  the  annals  of  English 
history  than  the  fate  of  this,  the  first  Tory  Ministry.  It  began  with 
•trength,  union,  and  enthusiasm.  It  ended  with  weakness,  bickering, 
and  fatal  mistrust.  It  began  with  a  well-defined  and  acceptable  policy 
of  opposition  to  the  war,  hostility  to  Dissenters,  and  jealous  respect 
for  the  rights  of  the  Church.  It  fell  amid  confused  and  sinister 
designs,  black  rumours  and  suspicions,  which  no  man  has  yet  been 
able  to  clear  away.  It  was  first  enfeebled  by  the  timid  ascendency 
of  Harley.  It  was  ridden  to  ruin  by  the  headstrong  leadership  of 
BoUogbroke. 

No  two  men  could  be  more  unlike  than  those  whom  the  fleeting 
chances  of  politics  and  an  ephemeral  personal  friendship  had  placed 
together  at  the  head  of  this  Ministry.  St.  John  was  gracefuli 
eloquent,  and  convincing,  ready  of  address  and  captivating  of 
maimer,  with  a  quick  and  fertile  intellectf  which  saw  life  from  many 
standpoints,  less  original  and  profound  of  thought  than  gifted  with  a 
ready  power  of  assimilation  and  a  wonderful  richness  of  expression, 
that  endowed  the  meanest  of  his  ideas  with  the  appearance  of  great- 
oess.    Harle)-  was  slow,  tedious,  and  hesitating,  incohetcnl  of  %^^<^ 

VOL.  CCXCI.     »0.  304?.  ^ 


J 


34 


Th^  Gentleman  s  Magazine, 


and  slovenly  of  address — a  man  whom  no  one  could  understand,  and 
who  could  not  even  explain  clearly  to  himself  the  motives  thai  had 
induced  him  to  enier  public  life ;  yet,  by  carerully  concealing  his 
plans  and  uttering  only  vague  generalities,  he  had  raised  great 
expectations  of  himself  in  the  hearts  of  his  party  ;  and  he  had  a 
perfect  knowledge  of  the  secret  arts  by  which  men  worm  themselves 
into  authority.  He  was  among  the  very  first  to  see  a  new  political 
weapon  of  incalculable  value  in  the  power  of  the  Press.  Whether 
it  was  from  a  dim-fcli  conviction,  or  because  he  fondly  wished  to  fence 
in  his  own  position  on  every  bide,  Harley  now  stood  forth  as  the 
purblind  representative  of  a  decaying  idea.  He  frittered  away  the 
strength  of  the  Tory  parly,  while  he  strove  to  rally  round  his  Ministry 
the  moderate  men  of  all  opinions  ;  and  he  set  his  underlii^,  Defoe, 
secretly  to  cajole  to  his  support  the  moderate  Whigs.  On  the  other 
hand  St.  John,  whatever  he  became  later,  was  then  all  for  party,  and 
strove  amid  the  plaudits  of  the  country  gentlemen  to  build  up  that 
Torj-  system  which  he  Iiad  outlined  in  the  days  of  his  opposition  to 
William  III.  Such  divergencies  of  interest  made  a  fatal  breach  upon 
their  friendship.  St  John,  the  younger  man,  who  had  at  first 
addressed  Harley  in  the  style  of  a  disciple,  calling  him  teacher  and 
master,  began  to  stand  forth  as  his  rival,  and  was  aided  in  this  new 
character  by  Harley's  dilatory,  perfunctory,  and  confused  methods  of 
conducting  business.  When  Harley  was  made  an  earl  and  St.  John 
only  a  viscount,  this  rivalry  became  a  funous  passion,  breaking  at 
last  into  the  weekly  quarrels  which  even  Swift  was  unable  to  compose. 
It  ended  in  the  supersession  of  Harley  by  the  readier  and  more 
decided  BoUngbroke. 

Both  the  conduct  of  this  Ministry  and  that  of  its  opponents 
displayed  in  fatal  strength  all  the  eviU  of  the  party  system.  But  let 
lis  leave  the  deadly  spirit  whicli  induced  the  Whigs  to  abandon  the 
Dissenters  that  they  might  combine  with  the  excluded  Tories  under 
Nottingham  ;  and  let  us  turn  rather  to  the  actions  of  the  Ministry, 
and  particularly  to  the  peace  which  it  made  with  France,  and  to  the 
suspicions  that  have  always  hung  around  it  of  intriguing  for  the 
return  of  the  Stuarts.  There  is  no  need  to  swell  the  partisan 
discussion  tliat  long  raged  round  the  Treaty  of  Utrecht.  It  seems 
that  peace  was  needed  ;  that  Enghind  had  entangled  herself  with 
greedy  allies,  who  expected  a  generous  reward  for  reluctant  and  tardy 
efforts,  and  that  she  bad  won  as  much  from  the  war  as  she  could 
without  overstraining  her  strength.  But  the  peace  was  made  by  men 
whose  fortunes  and  perhaps  whose  lives  depended  on  its  »peedy 
cotnplciion.     It  was  made  by  men  whose  position  at  home  wonld 


Tk^  Politics  of  Bolingbroke. 


» 


» 


35 


be  weakened  by  English  success  in  the  field,  and  who  therefore 
denuded  the  army  of  Marlborough  that  he  might  win  no  embarrsiss- 
ing  Tictory.  It  was  so  carelessly  drawn  as  to  leave  the  French  with 
a  ready  lever  against  the  English  in  North  America.  The  ncgotia- 
tiODS  were  in  the  main  the  work  of  Bolingbroke,  who  alone  of  the 
Ministry  was  qualified,  both  by  his  talents  and  by  his  knowledge  of 
the  French  language,  to  conduct  them  with  confidence.  They 
languished  in  his  absence  %  they  were  prejudiced  by  his  indiscretions ; 
they  were  only  accomplished  by  his  overmastering  zeal  In  one  point 
alone  be  failed.  He  cou)d  not  persuade  his  countrymen  to  come 
into  closer  commercial  relations  with  France.  Neither  his  eloquence 
nor  that  of  Defoe  could  overcome  the  time's  belief  that  trade  was 
only  a  subtle  kind  of  warfare,  in  which  the  good  of  one  side  was  the  ill 
of  the  other.  But  he  had  put  on  record  a  principle  which,  except  in 
times  of  national  depression,  had  been  strange  to  English  politics 
since  the  days  of  Edward  III.,  but  which  has  now  become  an 
accepted  axiom  of  national  conduct  He  had  for  a  few  years 
removed  England  from  active  interference  in  the  quarrels  of  Europe. 
And  this  was  the  comer-stone  of  that  Tory  system  for  which  he 
had  wrought  the  country  gentlemen  to  leave  the  labyrinth  of 
Haile/s  vacillations.  That  system  pleased  their  prejudice,  and 
seemed  to  them  founded  upon  an  impregnable  economic  idea.  Ever 
since  the  Revolution  they  had  been  as  dazed  children  wandering  in 
an  unknown  world.  War  had  increased  tlie  expense  of  government 
and  bowed  England  beneath  a  growing  burden  of  debt.  It  had 
produced  a  cla^s  of  men  who  lived,  not  by  their  labour,  but  on  the 
interest  of  what  they  had  lent  to  the  nation  ;  and  these  idle  drones, 
scarce  to  be  endured  within  the  body  politic,  had  pushed  the 
country  gentlemen  from  their  old  precedence.  As  they  battened  on 
war,  so  must  England  keep  from  war.  As  they  mingled  her  with 
ungenerous  allies,  so  must  she  keep  within  her  .sea4x>und  isolation. 
Moreover,  the  counlr)*  tjentleraen  had  seen  with  noisy  anger  long 
attacks  upon  the  dignity  of  the  Church.  Their  jealous  minds  con- 
ceived that  the  toleration  which  the  Dissenters  had  perforce 
received  at  the  Revolution  now  tlu-eatcned  to  become  an  intolerable 
equality  before  the  law  ;  and  too  many  of  their  natural  leaders,  like 
the  landed  families  of  Cavendish  and  Russell,  liad  overwhelmed 
their  opposition  by  siding  with  the  easier  and  more  latiludinarian 
Whigs.  It  was  to  avenge  all  this,  and  indeed  to  overturn  tlie  whole 
system  of  the  Revolution,  that  they  had  come  to  the  Parliament  of 
171?.  They  were  strong  at  last  in  the  fears  which  the  country  had 
bc€Q  moved  to  entertain  for  the  Church ;  and  ihey  (oWowed  w\l\\  %. 


3« 


The  Genikmafi  s  Magazine, 


^ 


noisy  joy  the  roan  who  put  their  holf-artLcuIate  wishes  into  the  form 
of  a  party  manifesto. 

Thus  the  Tory  system  was  an  attempt  to  set  back  the  clock.     It 
was  an  attempt  to  revive  the  days  of  the  Stuarts  without  their 
tyranny  and  their  worst  religious  vagaries.     It  was  an  attempt  of  the 
country  squires  to  check  the  progress  of  society.     It  was  one  of 
those  attempts,  of  which  history  is  full,  to  call  back  political  power 
to  a  class  from  which  it  was  shpping  away ;  and  it  can  be  paralleled 
from  the  history  of  any  narion  of  which  we  have  record,  from  the 
struggle  between  the  mountain  and  the  plain  at  Athens,  and  between 
the  patricians  and  the  plebs  at  Rome.     How  much  there  was  in  it 
of  mere  unlovely  prejudice,  and  how  much  of  that  reverence  for  the 
past  which  some  may  call  "  rock-  bound  antiquarianism  "  and  some  a 
"well-found  instinct  of  beauty,"  which  fired  later  the  English  protest 
against  the  French  Revolution,  it  would  be  hard  now  to  determine. 
The  beauty  of  every  cause  is  hidden  from  the  multitude,  who  cry  its 
watchwords  and  range  themselves  beneath  its  banner ;  and  it  is  hard 
10  see  anything  amiable  in  the  shouting  crowd  of  Squire  Westerns, 
who  followed  at  the  call  of  Bolingbroke,  and  who  were  better  judges 
of  ale  than  of  English  politics.    For  Bolingbroke  himself,  he  was 
without  a  doubt  that  product  of  the  strife  of  parties,  the  opportunist 
leader,  who  will  echo  the  passions  of  men  for  party  or  personal  gain. 
His  written  addresses  (we  cannot  now  judge  of  his  speeches)  always 
ring  to  me  with  a  cold  note  of  insincerity ;  but  yet  it  would  be  rash 
to  say  that  he  did  not  fight  for  principles  that  sprang  in  him  from 
aristocracy  of  birth  and  from  a  refinement  of  disposition,  that  shrank 
from  the  social  upheaval  of  the  Revolution,  so  destructive  of  what 
was  time-honoured  and  revered,  and  that  despised  the  bnuen  crowd 
of  new  succcssfiil  men  it  had  so  soon  produced.     That  refinement 
of  disposition  showed  itself  in  an  easy  polish  and  a  perfect  grace  of 
speech  and  writing.     That  pride  of  birth  saved  his  dignity  in  a  life 
of  sensual  excess. 

Such  a  spirit  might  accept  the  Revolution  as  an  end  of  tyranny, 
but  could  hardly  welcome  it  as  the  beginning  of  a  new  age.  It 
might  accommodate  itself  to  new  modes,  yet  try  to  restrain  what  it 
thought  to  be  their  excess ;  and  it  might  keep  this  aim  in  inew 
through  all  the  tortuous  windings  of  a  Ministerial  career.  Tliis  is  the 
best  that  can  be  said  for  BoUngbroke.  The  common  cry  of  the 
lime  was  that  he  meant  to  crown  his  work  by  restoring  the  Stuart 
kings,  and  after  his  fall  this  cry  was  repeated  with  the  wildest 
clamours  by  the  triumphant  Whigs,  and  indeed  by  all  the  adherents 
of  the  House  of  Hanover.    If  he  meant  so,  neither  he  nor  his  party 


The  Politics  of  Bolingbroke. 


• 


won  any  or  that  mournful  gbmour  which  is,  in  remembrance  at 
least,  a  compensation  to  the  devotees  of  lost  causes— that  glamour 
which  was  shed  by  Keats  on  the  imagined  gods  of  an  elder  faith. 
The  Tory  gentlemen  were  slow  to  imperil  their  lives,  and  Boting- 
broke  was  never  suspected  of  too  much  sincerity,  and  only  the  loftiest 
devotion  can  redeem  the  disgrace  of  failure.  But  while  the  Tory 
party  wished  for  a  king  of  English  race,  Bolingbroke  might  perhaps 
think  of  the  Stuarts  as  men  whose  folly  had  brought  England  to  her 
present  pass,  even  though,  since  the  \\l»igs  choked  up  every  avenue 
to  the  favour  of  Hanover,  he  feared  for  his  country  as  well  as  for  him- 
self the  accession  of  a  partisan  king  of  that  dynasty.  But,  whatever 
his  designs,  they  were  cut  short  by  the  unexpected  death  of  the  Queen. 
The  accident  of  a  few  days  lost  stayed  the  course  of  English  histor)'. 
The  work  of  the  Revolution  went  on  to  completion  under  the  a^s 
of  the  WTiigs,  while  the  whole  Tory  party  stank  under  the  twin  names 
of  "traitor"  and  "Jacobite."  Bolingbroke  himself  was  lost  to  thescr- 
rice  of  his  country.  He  was  thirty-six  years  old  ;  but  though  he  Uved 
for  forty  more,  his  influence  on  English  politics  was  always  strange, 
secret,  and  illegitimate.  It  was  as  if  a  Prospero,  full  of  spite, 
should  raise  a  storm  and  confound  his  enemies,  yet  fail  to  regain 
bis  lost  dignities. 

In  the  first  heat  of  the  Whig  triumph  Bolingbroke  fled  to  France, 
and  entered  openly  into  the  service  of  the  Pretender.  That  mis- 
guided Prince,  with  ordinary  prudence,  might  already  have  been  in 
the  seat  of  George  I. ;  and  even  yet,  in  the  hour  of  political  defeat, 
it  was  not  impossible  that  Bolingbroke  might  do  something  for  him. 
The  Tories  in  England  bad  been  surprised,  but  not  cowed ;  thdr 
plans  had  been  frustrated  only  by  the  accidents  of  time  and  by  the 
disagreements  of  their  leaders ;  and  they  were  more  than  ever 
inclined  (o  the  Pretender,  now  that  the  Revolution  had  become 
a  party  triumph  for  the  Whigs.  But  the  Pretender  «ras  the  meanest 
man  for  whom  enthusiast  ever  laid  down  life  or  fortune.  Loyalty 
to  him  could  never  be  loyalty  to  his  person  and  character.  It  was 
loyalty  to  his  misfortunes  as  the  fate  of  well-loved  principles  \  it  was 
loyalty  to  that  feudal  idea  of  indefeasible  royalty  which  passed  away 
with  the  Cavaliers  in  whom  it  lived,  and  which  must  be  held  the 
more  admirable  in  proportion  to  the  folly  of  those  whom  it  served. 
It  was  a  loyalty  which  burned  with  a  purer  flame  thirty  years  later, 
when  the  gross  resentments  of  party  defeat  no  longer  fed  the 
Stuart  cause,  and  when  it  had  become  a  whole-souled  devotion  to 
ftn  antique  idea.  But,  if  Bolingbroke  may  be  bcUevcdi  no  such 
loyaJty  circled  round  the  Pretender  at  St.  Gcrxnams.    \t\sVv  \n\cA»^ 


-uLuiuLuuenL  lo  uie  Aumon  v^atnuH 
what  Holingbroke  could  not  understand.  If  nil 
it  had  already  stood  in  the  way  of  Holingbrokl 
and  so  it  stood  now  in  the  way  of  his  restoratil 
with  this  ill-timed  consistency  in  his  mind  thati 
so  often  to  the  politic  pliancy  of  Queen  Elil 
Navarre.  Moreover,  the  wretched  crowd  of  col 
curious  antipathy  to  his  presence  among  the! 
enough  to  discredit  him  with  James.  His  coJ 
his  motives  suspected,  the  rising  of  1715  toq 
approval,  and  he  on  his  side  lashed  with  impatid 
courtiers  and  James  himseIC  At  last  he  was] 
offices — an  intended  mark  of  ignominy  which  n 
unbeatable  position,  since  no  sentiment  was  strc 
in  his  mind  before  practical  realities,  and  he  had 
the  Jacobite  cause  from  the  moment  when  I 
steadfast  friend  by  the  death  of  I^ouis  XIV,, 
sentative  of  irresponsible  royalty  that  Europe  ! 
had  borne  too  many  rebuffs  from  I/)uis*  A 
Private  pique  had  brought  him  to  this  scnric 
pique  away  from  it  in  the  manner  of  his  disniissa 
with  him,  he  built  on  this  private  pique  a  general 
He  would  make  clear  to  the  misled  Tory  pa 

nrvtxihititv  nf  Tin  iilillii  m  ^^^^^^^^^Mi 


The  Politics  of  Bolingbrokc. 


his  real  discontent  with  vague  reflections  on  the  pleasures  of  exile. 
"  A  wise  man,"  he  would  write  one  day,  "  looks  on  himself  as  a 
citizen  of  the  world  ;  and  when  you  ask  him  where  his  country  lies 
paints,  like  Anaxagoras,  with  his  finger  to  the  heavcn.i."  The  next 
day  he  would  ask  a  friend  to  intercede  for  him  with  the  English 
GovemraenL  During  this  time  he  made  a  lucky  speculation  in 
Mississippi  shares.  Indeed,  he  asserted  that,  had  he  wished,  he 
could  have  made  a  lai^e  fortune  ;  but  he  thought  it  unworthy  of  a 
gentleman  to  turn  broker.  AVhen  at  length  he  was  allowed  to 
return  to  England  he  came,  as  it  were,  to  a  strange  country.  Not 
only  was  the  Tory  party  almost  non-existent,  but  the  ferments  of 
t7ii  bad  subsided  into  a  sort  of  slow  indifference,  in  which  the 
people  lived  careless  of  their  rulers,  while  one  jealous  Minister 
monopolised  authority  and  excluded  from  tlie  councils  of  the  nation 
all  wliose  ability  might  have  enabled  them  to  act  with  independence. 
A  jealousy  of  able  colleagues  is  indeed  a  common  fault  with  Ministers, 
Walpolc  shored  it  with  men  as  unlike  himself  as  Henry  III.  and 
ge  in.  It  was  thererore  hardly  strange  that  he  should  keep  an 
B.Uy  wary  eye  on  Bolingbroke,  allowing  him  to  live,  to  bequeath, 
'~liid  to  inherit,  but  not  allowing  him  to  exercise  any  political 
fights. 

To  live  in  England— that  was  the  utmost  grace  Bolingbroke  could 
obtain  from  the  Whig  Government  of  Walpole.  Political  vengeance 
had  brought  his  fate  near  that  of  a  man  who  had  done  more  for  the 
Revolution  than  some  whose  names  are  writ  larger  in  history. 
Daniel  Defoe  only  continued  in  politics  after  17 15  as  a  spy  of  the 
Whigs  on  Tory  journals,  and  in  1725  Bolingbroke  only  indirectly 
ade  his  way  back  to  politics.     Still  half-proscribed,  he  kept  up  at 

tersea  or  Dawley  the  style  of  a  leisured  gentleman  whose  friends 
were  men  of  letters  like  Pope  or  Swift,  and  whose  recreations  were 
in  books  of  philosophic  study.  He  was  all  that  and  more.  He  had 
found  a  more  deadly  weapon  of  political  warfare  llian  that  oratory 
which  had  once  inflamed  the  hearts  of  country  squires,  and  a  wider 
audience  than  that  which  he  would  have  addressed  in  the  House 
of  Lords.  His  audience  was  now  the  nation,  and  his  speeches 
were  not  delivered,  but  printed  and  published  under  convenient 
pseudonyms. 

From  one  point  of  view  Bolingbroke*s  object  was  purely  personal, 
yet  different  from  that  which  he  had  brought  back  from  France.  It 
WM  mad  vengeance  upon  the  statesman  who  hod  condemned  him  to 
political  death.  It  was  to  raise  those  first  muttcrings  of  discontent 
which  he  had  heard  on  his  return  to  EngUind  into  a  sVotm  xVa\s\^o\k\^ 


40 


The  Gentleman  s  Magazine, 


sweep  away  Walpole  and  his  obstructive  Ministry.  It  was  to  change 
public  indifference  to  public  passion;  to  unite  not  only  the  poor 
remains  of  the  Tory  party,  now  in  captivity  through  Bolingbroke's 
own  mistakes,  but  also  those  Whigs  whose  native  love  of  office 
Walpole  had  disregarded  j  to  join  in  one  campaign  men  so  dis- 
similar as  the  florid  Paltcney,  the  melancholy  Wyndham,  and  the 
exquisite  Chesterfield— ^and  all  that  Bolingbroke  might  sit  again  in 
the  House  of  Lords.  The  means  were  worthy  of  such  a  cause. 
They  were  the  worst  devices  with  which  a  partisan  Press  long  sinoe 
loaded  constitutional  government;  not  merely  general  charges  of 
corruption,  bribery,  tyranny,  illegality,  and  the  like — in  which  there 
might  be  some  truth,  but  in  whose  very  vagueness  lay  the  impossi- 
bility of  their  refutation — but  the  smallest  acts  of  the  Minister 
reviled  and  distorted  as  they  could  be  only  by  a  mind  of  the  highest 
powers  which  lent  itself  to  so  malignant  a  purpose.  Bolingbroke 
came  amid  difficult  negotiations  with  a  cry  that  Walpole  did  not 
know  his  mind.  He  charged  him  first  with  wishing  to  restore 
Gibraltar  to  Spain,  and  then  with  violating  a  promise  to  ^c*  so.  He 
declared  that  the  folly  of  the  Ministry  had  sent  all  our  friends  to  the 
side  of  our  enemies.  "  All  other  Powers  softened  towards  each  other 
by  degrees ;  and  by  degrees  we  got  deeper  into  the  quarrel.  Spain, 
from  having  no  ally,  came  to  have  many ;  some  more,  some  less  to 
be  depended  on ;  none  to  be  feared.  From  living  a  multitude  of 
disputes,  she  came  to  have  none,  except  with  us.  We,  on  the  other 
hand,  from  having  none  of  our  interests  in  dispute,  are  come  to  see 
hardly  any  others  in  controversy.  From  feeling  ourselves  backed  by 
several  allies  we  are  come — at  least,  in  the  point  of  direct  relation  to 
us— to  have  but  one  ;  and  with  that,  we  own,  we  arc  dissati.sfied ;  nay, 
we  own  that  we  are  afraid  of  him."  The  difficult  years  from  1727  to 
1730  gave  him  an  opportunity  of  which  his  minute  knowledge  of 
foreign  affairs  enabled  him  to  take  solid  advantage.  But  he  used 
best  Walpole's  excise  scheme,  opposing  it  on  the  puerile  ground 
that  an  Engli-sh man's  house  was  his  castle ;  and  yet  in  his  own  time  of 
power  Bolingbroke  had  held  the  most  enlightened  views  on  trade- 
One  day  it  was  a  vision  of  the  Minister  Irampling  upon  the  British 
Constitution  ;  then  a  picture  of  a  corrupt  and  indifferent  rution,  over 
which  foolish  fraud  might  reign  supreme  ;  but  always  flouts  and  jeers 
and  insinuations,  which  were  none  the  less  vile  because  they  were 
fmely  said,  and  none  the  less  untrue  because  they  brought  examples 
from  Greece  and  Rome.  Such  work  in  another  age  would  have 
placed  Bolingbroke  in  the  front  rank  of  mischievous  demagogues, 
and  the  failure  of  its  personal  object  was  a  meet  reward.     Id  1735 


He 


ihtl^ 


«d 


*fitMB 


Ml 

bM  Botogbiiifce^ 
m  the  rtaiii      Tbt 
iCBl  otK  to  rssnoc* 

-  voct  vitfkoat  lua. 

a  fnvilB  gntqfc 

*^''y  pcBK  cssoe*  is  a  s&yniS 

the  g^iii|w^i^i.ii  of  }aa»ory^  «bo   teU    bow  thb 

cfiipor  ibat  coortiei^  beastf  setSed  the  Arte  of  n&tiain. 

t  gnatdmiee  ever  hippmrH— itmigfat  be  retarded  or  aocelented 

I  so  tnvitl  a  vsy.    To  think  90  is  to  set  the  vhims  of  miting* 

aboTC  the  mardi  of  pnnci|>ks.     It    is  jks  ir  one  sbonU 

I  a  Wfaitsiia  firast  voisld  IdU  ifae  ciascent  summer.     Few  public 

I  bot  are  the  sUves  of  causes  which  ihcy  do  not  know.     The 

giinds  aU  the  pebbles  od  the  bexh,  and  one  or  other  idea 

orer  every  onxt  of  the  human  mass.    Of  those  who  hav« 

ite  reseotmcDls,  the  commoner  characters  in  history  are  those 

rho  make  them  go  hand-Ln-hand  with  public  principles.     At  least, 

I  so  with  Bolingbroke.     George  I.  might  not  understand  his 

,  and  might  think  a  mere  gush  of  words  the  eloquence  in  wluch 

•  welled  from  him.    "  He  talked  only  bagatelles,'*  said  George  lo 

de:    And  e^'eryone  must  feel  that  Bolingbroke  was  at  limes  only 

;  and  playing.     His  conceptions  arc  of^cn  cold,  bis  cloi]ucaco 

hollow,  his  arguments  ephemeral ;  and  he  seems  in  no  more  earnest 

ihin  a  Cavalier  making  by-pby  with  his  handkerchief.     '*  Those  who 

live  to  see  such  happy  da>*s,'*  he  said  at  the  end  of  "  The  Patriot 

I  King,"  "and  to  act  in  so  glorious  a  scene,  will  perhaps  call  to  mind 

^  with  some  tenderness  of  sentiment,  when  he  is  no  more,  a  man  who 

contributed  his  mite  to  carry  on  so  good  a  work,  and  who  desired 

life  for  nothing  so  much  as  to  sec  a  king  of  Great  Britain  the  moit 

popular  man  in  bis  country  and  a  Patriot  King  at  the  head  of  an 

united  people."    Is  not  this  like  a  man  laying  his  hand  upon  his  heart 

.  and  calling  hts  gods  to  witness?  But  there  was  reason  in  Bolingbroka'i 

^arguments,  and  much  in  the  state  of  England  to  give  ihcm  force. 

It  was  not  good  that  constitutional  government  should  have  turned 

into  petty  squabbles  between  bands  of  oRice-tiecking  Whigti.     It  was 

not  right  tiiat  a  great  party  should,  in  Bolingbroko's  oft-quoted  phrase, 

have  become  "  hewers  of  wood  and  drawers  of  water "  to  their 

opponents.     It  was  worse,  too,  to  sec  abroad  a  finrit  of  corruption 

which  was  slaying  all  sound  political  life ;  and  it  woa,  as  Bolingbroke 

bdedared,  a  decaying  nation  from  which  there  came  no  TcmeJl'),    *VWl 


ITalpole 


The  Gentleman  s  Magazine, 


remedy  he  himself  supplied.     He  woke  the   nation  from  political 
sleep. 

Bolingbroke's  chief  cry  was  against  the  spirit  of  faction — 
by  which  he  meant  not  the  wild  clamour  of  1711,  which 
would  have  too  near  an  application,  but  the  government  of  the 
country  in  the  interests  of  a  party,  which,  he  said,  was  only 
possible  when  corruption  had  eaten  away  its  strength.  "  A  wise  and 
brave  people,"  he  said,  "  will  neither  be  cozened  nor  bullied  out 
of  its  liberty ;  but  a  wise  and  brave  people  may  cease  to  be  such ; 
they  may  degenerate;  they  may  sink  into  sloth  and  luxury;  they 
may  resign  themselves  to  a  treacherous  conduct,  or  abet  the  enemies 
of  the  Constitution  under  a  notion  of  supporting  the  friends  of  the 
Government"  Nineteenth-century  criticism  would  present  rather 
details  and  points  of  corruption,  but  that  of  the  eighteenth  loved 
to  clothe  itself  in  the  abstract  concepts  of  morality  ;  and  it  was  the 
habit  of  Bolingbroke  to  insinuate  the  particular  by  means  of  the 
general,  or  to  present  it  as  a  sly,  allusive  picture  of  bygone  events. 
He  found  faction  in  every  troubled  reign  of  English  history  ;  curbed 
by  Elizabeth  ;  rampant  under  James  I.,  "  who  seemed  to  expect  the 
love  and  to  demand  the  obedience  of  his  subjects  simply  because 
the  crown  had  dropt  upon  his  head  " ;  incarnate  in  Buckingham,  a 
sole  Minister  who  betrayed  his  master  (his  character  was  an  oblique 
reflection  of  Walpole) ;  and  then  for  a  happy  time  beaten  down  by 
the  Revolution,  when  Whig  and  Tory  sacrificed  (heir  party  to  their 
country.  But  the  Revolution  had  been  pushed  loo  far;  it  retained 
too  much  of  the  spint  of  former  animosities ;  it  left  one  party  too 
eager  and  the  other  too  sullen ;  it  made  no  safeguard  against  the 
corruption  of  Parliament ;  and  its  chief  result  had  been  to  increase 
the  ability  of  the  Crown  to  govern  by  that  dishonourable  expedient. 
"  No  instrument  of  tyranny,"  said  Bolingbroke,  "can  be  found  so 
sure  and  effectual  as  an  assembly  of  the  estates  of  the  realm,  when 
such  an  assembly  is  so  consliluted  as  to  want  the  power,  as  was  from 
the  first  the  case  of  the  three  estates  of  France  ;  and  the  same  roust 
happen  when  they  are  so  constituted  as  to  want  the  will,  as  became 
at  last  the  case  of  the  Cortes  of  Spain^  to  secure  the  libertj'  and  to 
defend  the  property  of  the  people  against  such  kings  as  Philippe  le  Bel 
and  such  coadjutors  as  Marigny."  (Philippe  le  Bel  and  Enguerrand 
de  Marigny  were  brought  from  history  pale  prototypes  of  George  and 
Walpole.) 

Thus  Bolingbroke  declared  it  his  aim  to  call  back  England  to  the 
true  principles  of  the  Revolution.  He  spoke  as  one  who  believed 
that  old  party  distinctions  had  then  been  destroyed.     None  but  a 


The  Politics  of  Bolingbroke. 


43 


few  pmgmatical  Tories  maintained  the  doctrines  of  prerogative  or 
worshipped  at  the  shrine  of  Charles  the  Martyr.  None  but  a  few 
abandoned  Whigs  agreed  with  every  excess  of  the  new  dynasty. 
Parties  there  were,  and  parties  there  must  be ;  but  tiie  panics  of 
1733  were  composed  of  those  who  loved  their  country  and  those  who 
sought  their  interest ;  those  who  fought  against  the  corruption  which 
was  shackling  the  free  Constitution  of  England,  and  those  creatures 
of  a  profligate  Minister  who  defende<I  corruption  as  the  oil  that  eased 
the  wheels  of  government.  They  were,  in  fact,  the  old  Court 
and  country  parties  over  again  ;  but  now  on  a  wider  field  and  for  a 
higher  issue— no  less  than  to  beat  down  faction,  to  exorcise  corrup- 
tion, and  to  restore  the  work  of  the  Revolution,  which  had  been 
trampled  down  in  factious  strife.  It  might  not  be  sound  history ; 
but  it  was  a  plausible  and  orderly  argument,  which  went  further  than 
the  Tory  scheme  of  ijii  only  because  it  presented  principles, 
whereas  the  other  presented  only  means. 

That  argument  became  a  declamation  against  the  whole  system 
of  party  government,  not  for  the  subtler  defects  which  modern 
minds  have  found  in  its  workings  \  as  that  it  favours  public  licence 
and  instability,  political  charlatanism,  and  demagogic  tub-thumping  ; 
that  it  is  blind,  noisy,  partial,  and  unreasonable  ;  or  that  it  permits  the 
progressof  society  only  by  transverse  undulations ;  but  because  it  broke 
Uie  Constitution  and  must  by  nature  become  the  rule  of  faction. 
"Party,"  said  Bolingbroke,  "is  a  political  evil,  and  faction  is  the 
worst  of  parties."  He  thought  that  the  best  form  of  government  was 
monarchy — fetching  his  reasons  not  from  the  needs  of  mankind,  but 
from  fancied  first  principles.  Monarchy,  he  held,  was  a  pale  reflec- 
tion of  divinity.  Kings  were  to  nations  what  God  was  to  the 
universe.  "God,"  he  said,  "  is  a  monarch—  not  arbitrar>',  but  Hmited  — 
limited  by  the  rules  which  infinite  wisdom  prescribes  to  infinite 
power."  So  kings  were  limited  by  the  duty  of  governing  well,  and 
by  whatever  fences  society  had  built  against  the  chance  of  tyranny  ; 
but  there  was  nothing — in  the  English  Constitution,  at  least — which 
could  lawfully  make  monarchy  the  vacuiz  sedes  et  tnania  arcana  of 
authority.  Bolingbrokc's  gaze  leapt  over  many  troublous  reigns  of 
English  history,  in  which  the  evil  policy  of  kings  bred  parties  and 
parties  bred  factions,  till  it  rested  on  Queen  Elizabeth,  the  national 
ruler  and  arbitress  between  a  multitude  of  warring  sects ;  and  then  it 
turned  to  the  days  when  faction  should  be  overcome,  corruption 
banished,  and  an  united  people  guided  by  a  Patriot  King — 
that  incarnation  of  all  the  virtues  which  Bolingbroke  failed  to  find  in 
George  and  VValpole.    The  features  of  this  character  arc  well  known, 


The  Gentkmans  Magazine. 

and  there  is  no  need  to  draw  them  here  at  length.  The  Patriot 
King  would  begin  to  govern  as  soon  as  he  began  to  reign.  He 
would  seek  the  good  of  his  subjects— not,  like  the  Prince  of  Machia- 
velli,  from  motives  of  self-interest,  but  from  a  true  regard  for  their 
welfare.  He  would  espouse  no  party,  but  govern  like  the  common 
father  of  his  people.  He  would  banish  from  his  Court  all  those  who 
had  pushed  themselves  into  the  Administration  by  the  arts  of  faction 
and  corruption  ;  but,  unlike  the  Hanoverians^  he  would  sacrifice  his 
victims,  not  to  party  fury,  but  to  national  justice ;  and  he  would  call 
to  his  councils  only  such  men  as  were  willing  to  sen'e  on  the 
principles  on  which  he  intended  to  govern.  Above  all,  he  would 
not  neglect  that  outward  duty  of  dignity  and  decorum  for  the 
lack  of  which  many  kings  lost  the  admiration  of  their  subjects. 
*'  What,  in  truth/*  said  Bolingbroke,  "can  be  so  lovely,  what 
so  venerable  as  to  contemplate  a  king  on  whom  the  eyes  of  a 
whole  people  arc  fixed,  filled  with  admiration  and  glowing  with 
affection?"  The  Patriot  King  was  thus  a  Homeric  figure,  a 
true  paler  patria^  a  kindly  aristocrat  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
dispensing  bounty  and  reproof  to  a  submissive  people — the  antithesis 
of  that  hero-king,  the  man  of  demoniac  energy,  whom  Carlyle 
pictured  as  appearing  once  in  a  while  to  dragoon  mankind  into  the 
paths  of  progress.  But  then  Bolingbroke  wrote  before  the  French 
Revolution. 

It  is  idle  to  dismiss  the  Patriot  King  as  a  mere  piece  of  rhetoric. 
The  occasion  no  doubt  was  low,  and  the  result  in  keeping.  Frederic, 
Prince  ofWales,  was  too  poor  a  thing  to  act  the  part,  and  George  III. 
turned  its  teachings  into  folly;  but  it  had  a  better,  if  a  some- 
what self-seeking  and  fitful,  exemplar  on  the  Continent  in  the  Emperor 
Joseph  n.  It  was  an  eighteenth-century  picture  of  popular  despotism, 
vague  and  unfinished  of  outline,  darkly  coloured  with  the  party  hue, 
and  overcrowded  Viith  vain  figures  of  universal  goodness  and  phil- 
anthropy  ;  and  it  took  too  little  account  of  human  nature.  But  it 
painted  a  political  ideal  which  was  at  least  as  noble  as  the  one  it 
would  displace,  which  was  by  no  means  impossible,  and  which  later 
practitioners,  such  as  the  French  of  the  Second  Empire,  have 
tried,  however  vainly,  to  realise— an  ideal  which  rose  before  the 
English  in  their  late  humiliations.  But  the  party  taint  maimed 
its  worth.  So  far  from  killing  party,  it  blew  the  party  fire  to  a 
keener  flame.  It  drove  one  party  from  a  long  monopoly,  and 
after  an  inglorious  trial  of  its  principles,  in  which  faction  and 
corruption  stalked  abroad  with  all  their  former  strength,  it  installed 
another  party  in  an  oppressive  supremacy  which  the  terrors  of  the 


The  Politics  of  BoHngbroke. 


45 


French  Revolution  helped  to  maintain.  That  BoUngbrokc  did  so, 
thai  he  restored  the  Tor)'  party  lo  what  the  critics  call  its  true  position 
in  the  balance  of  the  cbecks  of  our  Constitution,  is  held  by  many  to 
be  his  chief  title  to  praise  ;  and  we  find  him  set  up  as  a  pattern  to 
a  certain  modern  English  statesman. 

It  is  said  that  when  Bolingbroke's  second  wifedied— she  who  was 
the  niece  of  Madame  dc  Maintcnon — he  threw  himself  upon  the 
bed  where  she  lay,  and  sobbed  as  if  his  heart  would  break.  He  was 
then  an  old  man.  "  He  simulated  grief  very  well,"  said  Horace 
Walpole.  This  phrase,  though  from  one  who  had  been  hard  hit  by 
Bolingbroke,  tells  us  in  part  the  cause  of  his  personal  failure. 
Nobody  thought  hira  sincere.  His  pretence  of  living  as  a  careless 
country  squire  at  Dawley  had  long  been  inefleclual ;  and,  as  we  have 
seen,  the  men  for  whom  he  wrote  speeches,  and  whose  scattered 
resentments  he  had  joined  in  one  fierce  plan  against  \Valpole,  wished 
him  out  of  the  way  because  his  ill-repute  baulked  their  revenge  and 
added  strength  to  the  Minister. 

Now,  we    have  already  hinted   the  curious   union   in   Boling- 
broke   of   private   grudges   with    public  principles,  and   we    must 
allow  tumultuous  spite  so  far   supreme   in   him   as    to   have   dis- 
arranged  and   confused   the   body  of  bis   ideas.    It  would    be 
absurd  to  expect  from  a  politician  the  clear-cut  consistency  of  a 
philosopher.     One  looks  rather  for  a  jagged  edge  of  thought,  and 
behind  that  a  shifting  obscurity.     But  there  is  so  much  chaotic  and 
incoherent  and  momentary  in  BoUngbrokc  that  one  wonders   how 
much  he  assumed  to  deck  each  occasion  as  it  rose,  and  how  much 
was  the  bed-rock  of  his  opposition  to  Walpole  and  of  his  dislike  of 
party  government.     In  a  man  who  wrote  largely  of  philosophy  one 
would  look  also  for  an  attempt  to  ground  political  doctrines  on  ultimate 
principles ;  but,  except  in  the  case  of  monarchy  mentioned  above, 
where  the  argument  is  false  and  fanciful,  there  is  little  of  the  kind 
in  Bolingbroke.     He  wrote  an  essay  on  patriotism.     It  began  by 
pnusing  ihosi:  who  serve  their  country  ;   it  ended  by  denouncing 
Walpole.     It  made  no  attempt  to  define  patriotism,  and  conveyed 
little  poUtical  doctrine,  except  the  implication  tliat  patriotism  is  a 
operty  of  the  wealthy  and  well-born.    Again,  the  ideas  of  the  Tory 
erne  never  altogether  left  BoUngbrokc.     He  employed  against 
Walpole  the  cries  against  national  debts  and  standing  armies  which 
ad  been  current  in  the  days  of  Queen  Anne,  but  which  sounded 
ngcly  and  faintly  beside  the  Whiggish  clamours  which  he  uttered 
through  the  mouths  of  Pulteney  and  Wyndham.     There  was,  it  is 
trae,  a  dear  note  of  warning  in  his  cry  against  natioiud  debts^  wUvch, 


46 


The  Gentleman  s  Alagazine. 


it  would  not  have  harmed  our  forefathers  to  remember.  That  a 
nation  with  a  debt  is  better  than  a  nation  which  lias  none,  as  some  of 
our  theorists  have  maintained,  is  one  of  those  mysterious  dogmas 
which  the  unassisted  understanding  cannot  penetrate.  But  there 
was  far  more  ultimate  effect  in  Bolingbroke's  unfashionable  pronounce- 
ment of  a  true  national  policy.  To  decrease  the  number  of  soldiers 
and  increase  the  number  of  sailors,  to  let  the  European  Powers  fight 
out  their  own  quarrels  and  only  to  engage  ourselves  when  interest 
imperatively  demands,  is  a  doctrine  plain  enough  to  us,  but  disregarded 
by  the  generation  which  haggled  over  Parma  and  Piacenza,  and 
permitted  the  barter  of  Tuscany  for  Lorraine.  It  was  Bolingbroke's 
merit  to  state  thai  doctrine  clearly  and  leave  it  to  the  new  Tory  party 
as  a  watchword,  which  they  kept  in  Opposition  and  forgot  when  they 
came  to  office.  But  ihe  wonder  Is  how  he  turned  this  doctrine,  like 
everything  else,  into  a  weapon  against  Walpole.  You  may,  if  you 
like,  regard  Eolingbroke  as  a  political  martyr.  He  was  no  martyr  to 
principtc.  He  was  rather  a  Samson  who  confounded  his  enemies 
in  his  captivity. 

Let  mc  insist  here  on  Bolingbroke's  conception  of  history.  To 
do  so  ts  to  make  no  great  digression  from  the  subject  of  this  essay,  for 
Bolingbroke  always  fortified  his  political  arguments  by  reference  to 
the  past,  tangling  indeed  the  whole  thread  of  English  history  into  a 
tissue  of  warnings  against  Walpole.  He  did  not,  like  Burke,  con- 
cave clearly  of  society  as  an  organism  which  can  only  be  understood 
by  patient  knowledge  of  its  growth  ;  nor  was  he  one  of  those,  like 
Shelley,  who  deride  the  study  of  history.  He  saw  several  wa>'s  in 
which  it  might  be  useless  to  mankind.  Some  men  turned  to  it  as 
to  a  game  ;  some  that  they  might  "  shine  in  conversation  "  ;  others 
"  made  fair  copies  of  foul  manuscripts,  explained  hard  words,  and 
made  learning  easier  for  the  mass " ;  others  invented  systems  of 
chronology ;  but  all  that  was  useless  if  it  did  not  make  a  man  a 
betiei  citizen.  True  history  was,  he  thought,  the  best  means  of 
education.  It  was  philosophy  teaching  by  example,  and  conquering 
the  passions  as  well  as  the  reasons  of  men.  It  was  full  of  warnings 
both  for  States  and  individuals,  which,  if  they  were  not  pushed  too 
far  in  particular  cases^  were  always  safe  and  sufficient  rules.  It  pre- 
pared a  man  for  public  Ufc,  and  no  man  was  fit  to  serve  his  country 
who  did  not  know  minutely  such  treaties  and  compacts  as  those  of 
Westphalia  and  the  Pyrenees,  which  have  from  time  to  time  settled 
the  face  of  Europe,  and  who  could  not  tell  exactly  how  ever)-  one 
of  llie  great  monarchies  had  been  built  up  and  maintained.  There- 
fore he  thought  it  mere  pedantry  to  linger  over  the  beginnings  of  a 


The  PoliiUs  of  Bolingbroke. 


47 


nation,  or  indeed  over  the  events  of  any  century  up  to  the  fifteenth. 
"Down  to  this  era,"  he  said,  'Met  us  read  history;  from  this  point 
let  us  study  it."  Now  this  is  a  fairly  commonplace  view,  and  it  has 
on  its  own  ground  limitations  obvious  enough  to  those  who  know 
that  the  fifteenth  or  sixteenth  century  did  not  make  a  complete 
breach  in  the  progress  of  Europe.  Bolingbroke  conceived  of 
history  as  a  study  for  the  rich  and  wellborn,  who  might  expect  to 
hold  public  offices.  He  did  not  think  of  it  quite  as  past  politics, 
but  as  affording  a  content  to  that  principle  of  his  which  was  cast 
into  veise  by  Pope:  "  The  proper  study  of  mankind  is  man."  He 
looked  to  it  for  moral  examples,  warnings  of  decay,  principles  of 
wisdom,  and  guides  of  policy.  He  thought  that  only  the  best 
philosophy  which  had  an  ethical  interest.  He  had  none  of  the 
modern  subtlety  which  wonders  whether  history  merely  refines  the 
imagination  of  those  that  study  it,  or  whether  it  enables  them  to 
re-create  for  the  understanding  of  others  the  life  of  bygone  ages.  He 
was  fax  from  that  spirit  which  loves  to  wander  wonderingly  among 
venerable  cathedrals  or  beautiful  ruins.  The  tomb  of  Cestius  or  the 
Colosseum  would  have  raised  in  him  no  feelings  of  reverence  or 
sympathy.  If  they  appealed  to  him  at  alt,  they  would  only  have 
fiiniished  him  with  new  invectives  against  George  and  Walpole. 

In  religion  Bolingbroke  had  few  convictions  and  no  enthusiasms. 
As  an  aristocrat  he  despised  Dissenters,  and,  if  we  may  believe  the 
story,  thought  with  horror  of  the  days  when  he  had  been  made  to  read 
ftll  the  discourses  which  the  Reverend  Daniel  Burgess  had  composed 
upon  each  verse  of  the  one  hundred  and  nineteenth  Psalm.  He 
was  perhaps  attracted  by  the  dignity  and  the  grace  of  the  service  of 
the  Church.  As  a  politician  he  was  content  to  be  her  faithful 
servant,  and  it  was  one  of  the  taunts  of  her  opponents  that  her 
interests  were  defended  by  a  man  so  loose  of  life  and  principles. 
He  was  not  an  atheist.  His  attacks  upon  the  Mosaic  chronology 
and  the  authenticity  of  ecclesiastical  history  would  shock  our  age 
less  than  they  did  his  own.  He  declared  himself  ready  to  accept 
iny  theory  which  would  reconcile  or  account  for  those  parts  of  the 
Bible  which,  as  he  said,  were  incredible  to  human  reason.  He 
believed  that  atheists  and  priests  had  joined  together  to  delude  roan- 
kind.  Men  of  his  own  generation  thought  him  monstrous  and 
unclean.  Rumour  said  that  he  died  with  curses  on  hia  lips.  His 
lack  of  religion,  or  his  opposition  to  Christianity — call  it  which  you 
will — it  would  be  presumption  here  to  praise  or  to  condemn.  But 
he  judged  rather  the  institutions  of  religion  than  religion  itself,  and 
there  saw  only  the  crudities  with  which  men  have  so  often  overlaid 


SOME    VULGAR    ERRORS. 


A  VULGAR  error  means  merely  a  widespread  error,  such  as  <f?en 
the  most  refined  may  easily  shaic,  and  do  sometimes  share, 
maybe  yielding  a  little  to  their  taste,  in  spite  of  their  better  Itnow- 
The  belief  that  the  swan  sings  herself  to  death  is  one  of 
se  widespread  errors  which  poets  and  their  next  of  intellectual 
kin  are  loth  to  forego — nay,  do  their  best  to  keep  alive.    Tennyson, 
^for  instance,  speaks  of  the  death-song  of  the  swan.     So,  too,  does 
Phincas  Fletcher,  who,  in  the  days  of  Charles  I.,  penned  an  allego- 
I  poem  called  *'  The  Purple  Island,"  wherein  he  sings  : 

The  beech  »halt  yield  a  cool  safe  canD|>7 

WTiile  down  I  sit  »nd  chant  to  ibc  echoing  wood. 

Ah  \  singing  might  1  live,  aod  ungtog  die  1 

Su  by  (ail  Thames  ox  silver  McOnrajr's  flood. 

The  dyiog  swan,  when  yean  hei  temi^es  pierce. 

In  roBBC-slnuns  breathes  out  her  life  and  Terse ; 

And,  singing  her  own  dir^e,  dies  on  her  watery  hearse. 

But  truly  the  difficulty  Is  to  name  a  poet  who  docs  not,  so  to 
'speak,  sing  this  self-same  song.  You  may  find  it  in  Byron,  Camp- 
bell, Wordsworth,  Pope,  Dryden,  Thonison,  Milton,  Shake^}eare, 
Speniier,  and  Horace  ;  and  I  know  of  only  one  writer  who  takes  the 
trouble  to  tell  us  that  this  is  all  moonshine ;  and  that  writer's  name  is 
Pliny,  who  in  plain  prose  says  that  he  bad  seen  swans  die,  but  never 
beard  them  sing. 

It  occurs  to  me  that  I  never  did  see  a  swan  dying ;  bat  a  few 

months  ago  I  did  see  a  swan  dead,  floating  "  on  her  watery  hearse." 

With  the  poels,  however,  swans   not  only  sing  themselves  to 

death,  but  are  in  life  whitur  than  snow.     In  the  winter  of  1890-91  I 

trudged  three  miles  through  the  snow  on  purpose  to  test  the  truth  of 

[this  poetic  view  ;  and  I  saw  three  swans  looking  quite  dingy  as  they 

Kswaro  up  a  narrow  stream,  with  a  snow-clad  bank  for  background. 

Another  poptiUr,  or  poetical,  error  is  the  belief  that  little  bears 
are  bom  shapeless,  and  then  licked  into  shape  by  tlieir  dam. 
Samuel  Butler  countenances  this  error  in  his  "Hudibras"^  and 
^lienoc  the  ourenl  phrase,  "an  unlicked  cub,"  descriptive  q{  qv\^ 
vou  ccxci.    no.  80«7,  X 


The  Genilemans  Magazine. 


whose  mother  could  not  or  did  not  teach  him  how  to  behave  himself. 
I  fear  that  this  error  may  be  traced  to  the  great  Aristotle ;  but  an 
eminent  Italian  naturalist  took  the  trouble  to  watch  a  she-bear  in 
labour,  and  found — as  might  have  been  expected^that  little  bears 
are  no  more  shapeless  at  their  birth  than  little  babies. 

We  smile  when  told  that  the  father  of  the  eminent  Wesleyan 
minister,  Dr.  Adam  Clark,  used  to  till  his  North  of  Ireland  farm  on 
strictly  Virgilian  principles  j  using  the  "  Georgics  "  as  a  sort  of  agri- 
cultural Bible.  But  'tis  far  more  astonishing  to  learn^  as  we  do  from 
the  history  of  silk-weaving,  that  for  long  years  the  French  silkworm 
breeder  who  chanced  lo  lose  his  silkworms  would  resort  to 
the  same  recipe  for  getting  a  fresh  brood  as  that  adopted  by 
Aristxus,  at  the  bidding  of  his  mother  Cyrene,  for  the  renewing  of 
his  stock  of  bees.  The  recipe  was  to  bury  a  calf  in  the  ground, 
and  dig  it  up  after  a  certain  number  of  days ;  when  the  carcase 
would  be  found  swarming  with  bees.  And  Arista:us,  in  the  fourth 
Georgic,  did  so  find  it.  But  that  in  the  real  life  of  this  work-a-day 
world  a  calfs  carcase  should  spontaneously  breed  a  swarm  of  silk- 
worms transcends  belief.  And  yet  French  silk-breeders  did  really 
believe  this  ;  unless  Dr.  Lardncr's  "  Cyclopaedia  "  be  a  most  untrust- 
worthy guide. 

The  popular  belJerthat  Pontius  Pilate  drowned  himself  in  a  tarn 
on  the  top  of  Mount  Pilate,  near  Lucerne,  is  still,  1  believe,  as 
vigorous  as  ever.  But,  as  Dr.  Trench  long  since  explained,  Mount 
Pilate  is  but  a  modern  form  of  Mons  Pileatus,  the  capped  or  hatted 
hill;  because  this  hill  often  wears  a  cap  of  clouds  like  our  own 
Skiddaw,  as  nins  the  old  north  country  rhyme  : 

When  Skiddaw  dons  his  hat, 
Men  of  the  \-alc  bewnre  or  iti&t. 

But  the  meaning  of  pileatus  being  lost  in  Pilate,  and  the  name  of 
Pontius  Pilate  found  there,  up  sprang  the  legend  which  the  guide 
still  gravely  repeats,  and  wliich  finds  easy  credence  ;  as  it  naturally 
falls  in  with  our  human  sympathies. 

I  do  not  know  whether  anylwdy  still  believes  that  Mahomet's 
coffin  continues  to  hang  poised  in  midair  at  Mecca;  but  Samuel 
Butler  made  it  so  hang,  spite  of  the  additional  objection  that 
Mahomet  lies  buried  at  Medina.  So  that  there  is  here  exactly  what 
the  elder  Mr.  Welter  would  have  craved  for,  a  triumphant  alibi. 

The  vulgar  error  that  the  nightingale  sings  only  by  night— an 
error  backed  by  Shakespeare— still  holds  its  ground,  although  any- 
one who  will  take  the  trouble  may  easily  conirince  himself  that  the 
nightingale  sings  all  day  long.     We  may  note  in  passing  that  even 


Tome  Vuigar  Errors. 


Tennyson,  by  terming  the  nightingale's  song   "  the  music  of  the 
moon,"  sccras  to  countenance  the  prevalent  belief. 

A  widespread  error  is  that  of  im;igining  that  American  humour — 
which  consists  mainly  in  gross  exaggeration — is  a  nev  birth  of 
Time.  On  the  contrary,  this  sort  of  fun  prevaDed  in  the  days  of 
Quintilian,  who  lived  some  eighteen  hundred  years  ago,  and  who 
gives  some  excellent  examples  of  the  art  of  killing  a  big  lie  with 
a  bigger.  But  I  think  the  best  or  at  least  the  wickedest  of  his 
stones  is  that  which  tells  of  a  man  whose  wife  hung  herself  on  a  tree 
in  his  garden,  and  who  was  forthwith  besieged  by  his  mArried  neigh> 
hours,  begging  him  for  a  cutting  of  that  tree. 

*Tis  also  a  vulgar  error  to  believe — as  the  French  once  did — that 
DO  German  can  be  witty.  In  a  German  playhouse^  where  it  was 
forbidden  by  Government  to  introduce  any  "gag."  a  German  actor 
entered  the  scene  on  horseback,  and  his  horse  thought  fit  to  relieve 
the  wants  of  nature.  "  Now  then,  you  beast,"  cried  the  horseman, 
"  d'  you  want  to  get  me  into  trouble  !     That's  not  in  the  book." 

Another  still  more  widespread  error  is  the  belief  that  all  Germans 
are  sages  and  thinkers  ;  the  truth  being  that  the  Fatherland  has 
somewhat  more  than  her  fair  share  of  dutts  and  dunces  ;  so  that  we 
English-Scotch- Welsh- Irish  could  easily  distance  her  "all  along  the 
Un^"  did  we  but  give  ourselves  fair  play. 

Tis  easy  to  lengthen  our  list  of  widespread  errors.  Tis  a  wide- 
spread and  a  deadly  error  to  believe  that  whatever  is  new  must  needs 
therefore  be  best.  This  is  untrue  of  servants,  friends,  wine,  fiddles, 
fiutes,  of  many  a  book,  of  some  pairs  of  boots,  of  cheese,  of  words 
and  phrases,  of  physicians,  of  lawyers,  of  clay  pipes,  of  most  music, 
of  the  majority  of  pictures,  all  which  things — like  moons  and  trees — 
are  all  the  better  for  being  ripe.  I  shall  not  here  attempt  to  prove 
my  proposition.  Indeed,  in  many,  if  not  in  all,  of  the  cases  named 
there  needs  no  proof ;  res  ipsa  loquitur  ;  but  I  will  beg  leave  to  put 
in  a  special  plea  in  favour  of  old  words  and  phrases  as  opposed  to 
new.  And  first  of  the  last,  as  Aristotle  might  say.  I  was  lately 
reminded  of  a  couplet  of  Dean  Swift's,  which  runs  ; 

Making  tmc  the  ssying  f>dd, 

Keu  tbe  church  and  fiu  from  God  \ 

by-thc-by,  has  been  turned  against  the  Templars  of  to-day. 
:  here  Dean  Swift  was  not  inventing ;  he  was  merely  refurbishing 
a  fragment  of  Spenser's  "Shepherd's  Calendar": 

To  kirk  the  nurc,  from  God  loorc  Cu, 
Has  be«D  an  old  laid  nw. 

11 


S2 


The  Gentiematis  Magazine, 


Ay,  "old  said,"  not  "odd."    So  that  Swift,  instead  of  bettering  the 
old  saw,  may  be  said  to  have  taken  the  edge  off  it. 

And  now  a  plea  for  the  good  old  homely  word  "  nosegay,"  which 
still  lives  upon  the  lips  of  (p-ey-haired  hinds,  though  "  bouquet "  has 
banished  it  from  the  lips  and  pens  of  the  upper  ten — how  many? 
Well,  the  word  "bouquet  "  is  useful  when  one  wants  to  spealc  of  the 
perfume  of  good  wine;  and  for  that  purpose  let  us  keep  it,  but  ro-ive 
the  picture-word  "  nosegay,"  which,  besides  being  pure  English,  says 
as  plainly  as  words  can  say:  *'Lo!  I  present  you  the  image  of 
something  at  once  bright  to  the  eye  and  fragrant  to  the  nose.  What 
better  word  could  you  have?" 

Meanwhile  "  bouquet,"  though  bad  enough  as  a  makeshift  for 
"nosegay,"  is  a  hundred  times  better  than  "  buttonhole,"  which  now 
threatens  to  juslle  it  out  of  life,  as  itself  hasjustled  "nosegay."  Yes, 
but  a  few  weeks  ago  a  country  lass  proudly  showed  me  a  nosegay  as 
big  as  a  mop,  and  asked  me  to  admire  her  "  beautiful  buttonhole." 
Now,  though  to  call  even  a  single  flower  a  buttonhole  is  a  violent 
figure  of  speech,  no  one  but  a  pedantic  prig  would  seriously  object 
to  the  figure  ;  but  to  apply  it  to  a  big  bunch  of  sunflowers  and  poppies 
is  a  violation  of  good  sense  that  screams  for  protest. 

Another  plea  for  another  homely  English  phrase  of  old  descent. 
Reading  Gilbert  While's  "  Natural  History  of  Selborne"  I  stumble  on 
the  charmingly  simple  phrase:  "Nanny  has  been  ailing,  but  she  is 
mending  fast."  Then  I  turn  to  my  Times  and  light  on  this 
absurdity  :  "  The  Duke  of  Sutherland  is  now  quite  convalescent." 
Quite  convalescent  !  that  is  "  completely  mending."  Why,  the  adverb 
and  the  adjective  swear  at  one  another  like  cat  and  dog.  *'  Well, 
but  you  who  blame  the  Times  used  that  selfsame  phrase  yourself 
only  forty  years  ago."  Yes,  and  my  poor  mother  laughed  rae  to 
scorn  for  it ;  Heaven  bless  her  ! 

It  seems  hardly  necessary  to  add  that  no  one  in  his  senses  sup- 
poses the  editor  of  the  7)Wj  himself  capable  of  uttering  so  gross 
an  absurdity.  Even  the  clerks  in  the  Times  counting-house  know 
belter  ;  but  these  *'  atrocities  "  creep  in,  and,  in  the  hurry  of  "  going 
to  press,"  escape  even  the  most  vigilant  editor's  eye. 

Another  popular  error  is  the  notion  that "  education  "  and  "  book- 
learning  "  are  synonymous  words.  This  error  is  embalmed  in  the  old 
saying,  that  "a  good  boy  minds  his  book."  But,  in  truth,  book 
learning  is  but  a  part  of  education,  and  by  no  means  the  most 
important  part;  as  many  an  excellently  well-read  man  feels  to  his 
cost  every  hour  of  the  day.  It  is,  however,  gratifying  to  be  able  to 
tdd  that — thanks  in  great  part  to  the  teaching  contained  in  Mr. 


Some  Vulgar  Errors. 


Herbert  Spencer's  tittle  book  on  "  Education  "—folks  arc  now  be* 
ginning  co  took  oil  mere  book-kaming  with  suspicious  eyes.  There 
is  nov  perhaps  some  danger  or  our  running  into  the  opposite  extreme  ; 
at  least  so  &r  as  the  upper  classes  are  concerne<l 

1  now  descend  from  this  high  ilight  to  plead  for  the  revival  of 
another  old  word — "  needments  " — which  seems  to  me  far  better — 
as  'lis  surely  shoner — than  its  modem  substitute, "  necessaries."  Why 
not  *- needments  oflife"  instead  of  "  necessaries  oflife,"  which  is  now 
the  standing  Ulcrary  and  legal  phrase  ?  See  the  leading  case  of  Seatim 
V.  Btntdict;  where,  bythe-by,  Benedict — the  married  man — is  a 
feigned  name  for  a  certain  special  pleader  cither  at  or  ttnder  the  Bar 
whose  wife  thought  fit  to  run  him  into  debt  ^^200  for  silk  stockings 
some  ninety  years  ago  ;  and  the  question  for  the  judge — or  jury — 
was  whether  so  many  pairs  of  silk  stockings  could  be  deemed 
necessaries  of  life  for  a  person  in  her  position.  The  reader  will  judge 
for  himself  on  that  point.  Meanwhile  1  humbly  submit  that  *'  neces- 
ies  "  is  a  needlessly  long  and  hissing  word,  which  miglit  well  make 
y  for  Spenser's  "  needments."  I  lay  stress  on  the  hissing  of  the 
word  because  foreigners  are  wont  to  call  English  the  hissing  tongue ; 
and  it  behoves  every  Englishman  who  loves  it  to  do  his  *'  level  best " 
to  better  it  Great  writers  do  this  unconsciously.  Little  ones  must 
do  what  they  can. 

One  gigantic  popular  error  is  to  suppose,  or  rather  to  take  for 
granted,  that  *tJs  every  wight's  duty  to  ape  the  dress,  or  the  manner, 
or  the  mode  of  living,  or  the  style  of  writing  or  speaking  of  some 
other  wight.  This  Js  a  deadly  error,  for  it  leads  straight  to  affectation, 
which  never  fails  to  beget  disgust  the  moment  it  is  detected  \  and 
detection  dogs  its  heels.  *'  For  who,"  as  Tennyson  asks,  "  can 
always  act?" — i.e,  play  a  part  No  one.  The  mask  is  sure  to  fall 
ofl* sooner  or  later;  and  there  stands  the  hypocrite  self-exposed,  as  a 
hypocrite  In  the  pristine  sense  of  the  word,  vTct^iin/t,  an  actor, 
though  not  an  honourable  actor  \  a  stage-player  on  the  stage  of  real 
life.  Thus,  as  Schopenhauer  pointedly  puts  it,  every  man,  instead  of 
being  boimd  to  ape  others,  is  bound  to  be  original  to  tlie  best  of  his 
ability,  within  the  limits  permitted  by  the  law  and  by  the  dictates  of 
morality.  These  will  hinder  him  from  carrying  his  own  originality 
so  far  as  to  meddle  with  the  equal  right  of  his  neighbour. 

"  And  what  of  religion  ?  You  speak  of  the  restraints  imposed  by 
law  and  by  morality,  but  you  say  nothing  of  religion."  I  imagine 
Ihe  reader  to  raise  an  objection  which  has  arisen  in  my  own  mind. 
But,  on  reflection,  I  find  myself  justified  in  keeping  religion  apart 
&om  morality,  because  oxit   most   prevailing  po^\ai  crtoi  \&  NA 


54 


The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 


confound  them  as  if  they  were  one  and  the  same.  jVnd  this  is  natural,' 
for  tbc)'  both  have  their  root  in  the  heart.  Both  arc  feelings.  Only 
they  are  not  the  same  feeling.  Religion  is  a  feeling  towards  that 
great  Buiiig  whose  Name  is  so  often  taken  in  vain ;  morality  is  a  feeling 
towards  man  ;  and  to  treat  them  as  one  and  the  same  feeling  is  to 
court  confusion  of  thought  within  oneself^  and  endless  misunder- 
standing without 

There  are  vulgar  errors  and  vulgar  errors ;  and  "  their  name  is 
Legion."     As  the  poet  Thomson  says,    "  The  choice  perplexes,"! 
which,  by-the-by,  may  well  have  given  birth  to  the  now  hackneyed 
French  phrase  Vembarras  de  cfwix  j  for  Thomson's  **  Seasons  ** — 
like  Scott's  novels  after  them,  albeit  not  to  the  same  degree— did  notj 
fail  to  leave  their  mark  on  Continental  literature.     There  is  no  more ' 
widespread — and,  in  that  sense,  vulgar — error  than  the  belief  that 
the  Past  dies ;  a  belief  most   a/>parenii}\  not   to  say  obtrusively, 
present  in  Longfellow's  "  Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead,"  which j 
further  involves,  though  no  doubt  unwittingly,  a  perversion  of  the 
Redeemer's  bidding,   "  Let   the  dead  bury  their  dead.*'      Not  a 
syllable  of  a  dead  Past  !    That  is  pure  Longfellow.     No,  the  Past. 
never  dies.     It  lives  in  us  who  live,  and  will  live  in  our  children.! 
Hence,  in  spite  of  the  "old said  saw,"  bygones  can  never  be  entirely 
bygones,  though  wc  may  strive  our  utmost  to  treat  them  as  such. 
Then,  if  the  Past  died,  how  could  it  bind  us  ?  And  if  it  bound  us  not, 
where— as  George  Eliot  so  pertinently  asks — would  duty  lie?    Why, 
we  should  haste  to  shirk  all  our  obligations  and  frolic  in  a  purely 
animal  immorality. 

But  ought  one  never  to  practise  the  proverb,  "  Forget  and 
forgive  "  ?  That  were  surely  neither  Christian  nor  moral,  to  hug  the 
memory  of  old  wrongs  and  ever  lie  in  wait  to  avenge  them. 
Doubtless.  But  here  comes  in  a  distinction  which  the  popular 
proverb  wholly  ohscures  :  "  Forgive,  freely,  with  all  your  heart ;  but 
forget  never."  Forgive  with  all  your  heart,  but  remember  with  all 
your  head.  And  this  for  divers  reasons;  one  of  them  being  that,  if 
the  great  Schopenhauer's  theory  of  madness  be  just,  as  we  venture  to 
think  it  is,  to  court  forgetfulness  is  to  court  madness.  And  mad 
ness— like  dealh — is  already  cheap  enough.     We  roust  court  neither. 

Here  seems  a  fitting  place  to  notice  another  widespread  enor,  to 
wit,  that  Schopenhauer  advocates  suicide.  We  have  read  his  works 
from  beginning  to  end  :  not  a  line  that  flowed  from  his  pen  has 
escaped  us ;  and  wc  assure  the  non-l>chopenhauered  reader  that,  Ikr 
from  advocating  suicide,  Schopenhauer  severely  condemns  it  as — 
piu^doxioil  though  this  must  sotind  and  seem  —the  most  vehement 


Some  Vulgar  Errors.  55 

affirmation  of  the  sinful  will  to  live.  The  reader  will  not  expect  us 
to  attempt  to  explain  that  startling  paradox  here  and  now  in  the 
tail  of  a  fluent  paragraph.  It  needs,  what  Schopenhauer  gives  it,  an 
explanatory  treatise  to  itself ;  which  to  the  reader  might  pass  muster 
or  not  But  we  will  ask  him  to  take  our  word  for  it,  that 
Schopenhauer  strongly  condemns  self-slaughter;  as  indeed  was 
pointed  out  some  ten  years  ago  by  the  author  of  an  article  in  the 
ComMU  MagMttu, 

That  necessity — or  need — is  the  mother  of  invention,  cannot 
<airly  be  ranked  as  a  vulgar  enor.  Need  is  the  mother  of  all  the 
useful  arts.  There,  however,  at  "  useful,"  we  must  dmw  the  line ; 
else  we  shall  run  headlong  into  the  vulgar  belief  that  need  is  the 
mother  of  the  beautiful  arts,  and  starve  our  poets,  our  painters,  and 
their  peers,  on  principle.  Nay,  then,  but  Juvenal  knew  better,  and 
tried  to  teach  men  better,  some  eighteen  hundred  years  ago.  We 
know  that  Virgil  was  affluent.  Donatus,  indeed,  makes  him  a  mil- 
lionaire. Juvenal  soberly  tells  us  that  'twas  the  work  of  a  whole 
mind,  not  distraught  by  the  sordid  cares  of  seeking  food  and 
blankets,  to  pit  i£neas  against  Tumus,  and  to  paint  the  snakes  that 
encircle  the  heads  of  the  Furies : 

Magnae  mentu  opus,  nee  de  lodice  paranda 
Attonitse. 

And  so  our  own  Spenser  sings : 

The  vaonted  verse  a  vacant  head  demands, 
Ne  woDt  with  crabbed  care  the  Mnse  to  dwelt 

PHIUP  KENT. 


The  Gent/eniafis  Magazine, 


THE  ^ANTICIPATED   SCARCITY  OF 
TIMBER. 


As  long  as  a  great  part  of  the  world  Tcmained  unknown,  man 
had  no  consciousness  of  being  cramped.  In  distance 
there  was  always  a  beyond  ;  in  resources  there  was  always  the 
practically  inexhaustible.  But  now  that  the  world  has  been 
measured  and  mapped,  and  no  distance  remains  prohibLtive  of 
intercourse,  man  is  beginning  to  feel  a  new  sensation — that  of  being 
cramped  and  confined  within  very  definite  bounds,  and  of  being 
severely  limited  in  his  resources.  This  is  necessarily  a  new,  a 
modern  sensation.  The  limitations  of  area  and  resources  of  which 
peoples  and  races  were  conscious  in  the  past,  were  accidental  and 
temporary.  The  limitations  of  which  we  are  now  conscious  are 
inevitable  and  ultimate.  We  cannot  make  the  wor!d  larger  than  it 
is;  we  cannot  increase  its  natural  capacity  of  productiveness  or 
impart  to  it  fresh  qualities.  We  can  call  into  exercise  the  latent 
forces  which  it  possesses,  but  we  cannot  create  for  it  fresh  forces. 
We  know  the  world  for  what  it  is  ;  and  all  we  can  do  is  to  develop 
as  fully  as  possible  its  capabilities.  In  olden  times  there  was 
always  an  horizon  beyond  the  one  wc  saw  ;  now  we  have  seen  the 
farthest  horizon.  We  are  locked  in,  and  are  beginning  to  realise 
the  fact. 

This  consciousness  of  being  locked  in  has  taken  some  time  to 
become  acute.  Long  after  the  geographers  had  demonstrated  that 
the  earth  was  a  sphere  separated  from  the  rest  of  the  universe  by  an 
immense  distance,  and  even  after  most  of  the  earth's  surface  had 
been  actually  discovered  by  civilised  travellers,  the  world  seemed 
wide  enough  and  empty  enough  to  make  it  unnecessary  to  anticipate 
any  inconvenience  from  its  limited  area.  It  is  only  in  modern,  quite 
modem,  times  that  human  enterprise  has  so  rapidly  and  extensively 
swept  across  the  oceans  and  over  the  continents  as  to  compel  man 
CO  take  practical  account  of  the  ultimate  limitations  of  the  area  on 
which  tt  is  possible  for  him  to  act.    Enclosure  has  been  added  to 


The  AnticipaUd  Scartiiy  of  Timtbcr.  57 

endosme,  ontfl  we  find  omsdvcs  viihin  meascnbie  i^^-g^"-*^  of  the 
day  when  the  whtAc  world  will  be  mf\tiK^A 

The  £act  dut  we  are  opidljr  appnuchii^  the  "'"^Tr"'^  PrnTrf^frm 
of  die  area  in  which  we  are  moffnfd  is  bong  c^iocaZy  iui^eaaed 
npoa  OS  by  a  phenomenon  which  only  die  more  specCaszj^  r^mtrrt 
of  die  past  coald  have  antiripBTfd     At  the  h«'gir-n?ng^  oc  wha:  «e 

rail  fiwHi^arion    Jnnxt^  mrr^  m  part  th^  *4»u*  ^  ni  ;>w^K«w«y;>ifa>   am 

material,  and  in  pan  inq»eneciable  ic^iiaiis  of  nnstay  and  fcac. 
Gvilisation  as  it  progressed  found  diera  in  die  way,  and  he  wfao 
helped  to  clear  them  was  a  bmefartor  to  die  nee.    Tarrr,  maA 
later,  when  dmber  had  become  immeasniafaiy  more  vahobfe^  farests 
were  sdll  re^uded  as  practicany  innhamrible ;  and,  tboog^  dieir 
destmctioa  was  deploced  in  certain  localises,  it  was  left  to  dae  mne- 
teenth  contuiy  to  awaken  to  the  &ct  dut  it  «as  possibfie  so  to 
deplete  the  forests  as  to  bring  about  a  world-wide  dmber  £umnc^ 
besides  introducing  calamitoiis  ^-Hmafal  and  physical  changes  m 
large  districts.     Here  we  come  upon  oar  new  coosaoasness  of 
terrestrial  limitations.     There  are  00  new  lands  oyrered  with  nigia 
fwests  for  OS  to  discover.    If  we  are  to  hare  in  the  fotcre  a  snppfy 
oS  timber  cqaal  to  oar  A^manH^^  ve  must  diaw  it  from  die  lands  we 
know  of;  and  if  those  lands  are  to  cootimie  their  present  sopply, 
their  forests  roust  be  dealt  with  much  nxKe  sdentiBcally  than  th^ 
are  dealt  with  now.     Thus  the  threatened  timber  famine  possesses 
an  interest  orer  and  above  that  which  necessarily  belongs  to  it— the 
interest  <tf  being  one  of  the  first  practical  hints  that  we  are  locked  in. 
Thoi:^  the  evidences  npoa  which  the  cry  of  danger  to  the 
worid's  timber  supply  is  based  are  incontrovertible,  that  cry  -  in  qiite 
of  the  persistency  with  which  it  is  repeated — may  still  be  met  with 
incredulity  by  persons  who  have  not  paid  special  attention  to  the 
subject     The  casual  observer  sees  trees  in  abundance  in  most  places 
which  he  visits.     He  may  have  traversed  some  of  the  forest  dis- 
tricts of  Germany  and  Russia,  or  been  in  the  pine  woods  of  the 
northern  countries  of  Europe.     The  "  backwoods  "  of  America,  the 
"virgin  forests"  of  Canada,  are  terms  that  suggest  to  him  timber 
resources,  the  exhausdbility  of  which  he  may  imagine  that  we  can 
safely  leave  to  be  discussed  by  our  descendants.     Then  he  is  apt  to 
mention  loftily  the  unsnrveyed  tracts  of   Central  Australia    and 
Central  Africa,  with  an  iiKidental  reference  to  South  America.     He 
knows  of  the  immense  forests  in  India,  and  has  perhaps  heard  of  the 
enormous  band  of   untouched  forest  land  that  stretches   across 
Asiatic  Siberia.     In  the  &ce  of  all  this,  the  cry  of  alarm  raised 
iqppearf  to  him  unnecessary,  not  to  say  ludicrous.     But  the  initiated 


58 


The  Geniitmatts  Magazine. 


know  better.  They  know  that  the  enormously  increased  and  still 
rapidly  increasing  modem  demand  for  timtxjr  of  all  kinds  has  already 
made  very  serious  inroads  upon  the  more  accessible  forest  territories 
of  the  world ;  that  the  timber  has  been,  and  in  many  parts  still  is, 
felled  in  such  a  way  as  permanently  to  disafforest  the  districts  in 
which  it  grew  ;  that  the  limber- producing  countries  are  every  year 
becoming  more  and  more  timber-consuming  countries  in  the  sense 
that  they  either  do,  or  soon  will,  need  all  their  own  timber  for  their 
own  use  ;  that  some  of  the  world's  forest  lands  are  so  far  away  from, 
and  so  inconveniently  situated  with  respect  to,  the  chief  impwrting 
countries,  as  to  make  the  cost  and  trouble  of  conveying  thence  heavy 
limber  prohibitive  until  famine  prices  are  reached  ;  that,  in  a  word, 
the  present  commercial  demand  for  timber  is  so  rapidly  overtaking 
the  present  reproduction  of  limber  througliout  the  world,  tliat  unless 
energetic  measures  on  a  large  scale  are  very  speedily  taken  to  secure 
an  adequate  annual  reproduction  a  very  near  future  will  find  the  cry 
of  alarm  converted  into  a  universal  lamentation  over  actual  calamity. 
Because  a  man  can  lose  himself  in  a  wood  even  in  comparatively 
woodless  England,  or  can  find  in  an  hour's  stroll  a  number  of 
magnificent  jjark  trees,  it  does  not  follow  that  there  is  a  plethora  of 
limber  in  the  world.  Besides  its  annual  crop  of  native  timber, 
Great  Britain  is  buying  every  year  many  million  pounds  worth  of 
foreign  limber,  and  is  every  year  increasing  its  purchases.  Trees  do 
not  grow  up  like  corn  or  cabbages.  Few  are  worth  much  in  less 
than  fifty  years,  and  many  require  two  hundred  years  to  give  them 
their  full  value.  From  these  data  it  is  not  difficult  ti>  discover  that, 
unless  (are  is  taken  to  secure  adequate  reproduction^  the  world's  con- 
sumption of  tim1)er  must  speedily  overtake  the  world'.s  supply. 

This  is  by  no  means  all.  A  umber  famine  would  be  an  enormous 
commercial  and  industrial  calamity,  and  would  prejudicially  affect  the 
conditions  of  life  to  an  almost  inconceivable  degree ;  but  an  equally 
if  not  a  more  serious  result  would  be  the  effect  produced  upon 
climate  and  upon  the  general  fertility  of  the  earth  by  an  excessive 
diminution  of  forest  areas.  How  great  have  already  been  the 
clianges  produced  in  the  character  of  certain  lands  by  the  destruction 
of  forests  is  not  at  present  known  to,  or  if  known  is  not  seriously 
considered  by,  the  public  at  large.  Influences  that  operate  slowly 
and  obscurely  are  easily  overlooked,  though  their  effects  may  in  the 
long  nin  be  most  disastrous.  It  may  appear  to  the  unobservant  and 
thoughtless  a  ridiculously  far  cry  from  the  reckless  destruction  o( 
foresu  to  the  spread  of  sandy  deserts  and  arid  tracts  during  historical 
tiroes  over  Northern  Africa,  South-Westrm  Asia,  and  Southern  and 


The  Anticipated  Scarcity  of  Tifnher.  59 


Western  Europe.  Vet  the  two  phenomena  are  connected  as  cause 
and  effect.  It  will  be  one  of  the  politico-scientific  tasks  of  the 
future  to  determine  what  ratio  must  be  maintained  between  the  area 
of  woodland  and  of  open  country,  in  order  to  ensure  the  continued 
fertility  and  habitability  of  tbc  open  country.  No  development  of 
industrially  appHt^d  science,  no  political  sagacity,  no  intellectual  cul- 
ture, no  social  system  which  does  not  practically  recognise  the 
necessity  of  preserving  an  equilibrium  in  Che  great  natural  conditions 
of  the  earth's  surface,  will  save  man  from  ruin.  Not  only  is  man 
**  locked  in  "  here  upon  this  globe,  but  he  is  able  to  make  his  world 
unfit  for  him  to  live  in.  He  can  convert  his  garden  into  an  unin- 
habitable desert ;  and  he  can  do  this  with  a  facility  of  which  very  few 
appear  to  have  any  conception.  He  has  only  to  go  on  for  a  few 
generations  doing  as  he  is  now  doing,  supplying  the  year's  market 
with  the  produce  of  a  century,  and  making  no  adequate  provision  for 
the  supplies  of  the  future.  The  homely  old  phrase,  familiar  to  agri- 
culturist, about  •'  eating  the  calf  in  the  cow's  belly,"  describes  what 
is  merely  a  invial  blunder  in  comparison.  Com  and  cattle  can  be 
speedily  and  easily  reproduced  \  but  not  so  trees  and  forests.  Not 
only  do  trees  require  many  years  to  arrive  at  maturity  ;  but  forests 
when  recklessly  destroyed  are  restored  with  extreme  diificulty,  and 
conditions  are  only  too  easily  set  up  which  render  such  restoration 
almost  impossible. 

This  article  might  be  lengthened  indefinitely  by  adducing  a  mul- 
titude of  facts  in  proof  of  the  above  assertions.  These  facts  have 
long  been  known  to  experts,  and  lo  a  small  portion  of  the  reading 
public.  Action  has  Iiecn  taken  in  some  countries  ;  but  that  action 
is  still  too  local,  and  in  its  totality  altogether  inadequate  to  the 
urgency  of  the  case.  It  is  not  enough  that  a  few  nations  should  pre- 
serve their  forests  at  home.  What  is  urgently  needed  is  that  the 
great  timber  producing  regions  of  the  world  should  be  protected  from 
the  calamity  that  threatens  them,  and  through  them  all  the  peoples 
of  the  earth.  The  problem  is  both  a  domestic  and  a  cosmopolitan 
one ;  but  to  no  Great  Power  is  it  more  interesting  than  to  the 
British  Empire.  In  one  form  and  another  Great  Britain  consumes 
more  timber  than  any  other  Power.  Not  one  of  the  other 
important  old  countries  produces  at  home  less  timber  relatively  to 
its  sice.  On  the  other  hand,  Britain  owns,  in  her  dependencies  and 
colonies,  more  forest  land  than  any  other  Power  in  the  world  ;  and 
though  her  Indian  forests  are  comparatively  well  taken  care  of,  her 
|-colQcne«  are  very  urgently  in  need  of  some  action  to  prevent  the 
ndtktt  and  wasteful  destruction  of  their  valuable  timber  tTca&ut«s>. 


» 


60  The  CentUmmis  Magazine, 

Neither  at  home  nor  in  the  colonies  can  the  matter  be  safely  left 
to  uncontrolled  private  enterprise.  At  home,  planting  is  insufficieDtly 
remunerative  to  call  forth— or  even  to  justify — any  considerable  out- 
lay on  the  part  of  the  private  capitalist ;  in  the  colonies,  where  the 
timber  has  been  already  accumulated  by  untrammelled  Nature,  the 
private  adventurer  naturally  considers  only  present  profit  and  rushes 
the  wealth  produced  by  past  centuries  into  the  ever-eager  markets. 
The  inference  is  obvious :  the  whole  question  is  one  of  State  con- 
trol, not  of  private  enterprise.  Even  in  a  small,  or  comparatively 
small,  country  like  that  of  Britain,  some  kind  of  State  initiative  and 
control  is  necessary.  The  amount  of  capital  that  must  long  lie  dor- 
mant, the  extent  of  area  required,  the  need  for  highly  trained  and 
carefully  regulated  skill  and  labour,  the  fact  that  many  of  the 
advantages  derived  from  a  judicious  system  of  forest  cultivation  are 
national  rather  than  personal,  the  Importance  of  securing  a  conserva- 
tion as  well  as  a  present  supply  of  tlmbct— these  and  other  reasons 
afford  an  accumulative  argument  in  favour  of  State  control. 

As  to  our  own  islands,  it  would  be  grossly  unjust  to  our  landed 
class,  cither  of  the  past  or  the  present,  to  accuse  them  of  a  blamable 
indiffeience  to  timber  cultivation.  What  growing  timber  we  possess 
we  owe  to  the  often  unrcmuncrated  zeal  of  our  noblemen  and 
landed  gentry  in  planting.  We  have  unforgotlen  traditions  of 
"  planting  dukes,"  and  of  others  who  have  devoted  mucli  thought 
and  much  money  to  this  work.  It  is  true  that  *' sport "  has  often 
been  one  of  the  prompting  motives,  and  that  a  taste  for  richly 
timbered  grounds  has  been  another  ;  but  there  have  been  also  other 
motives  at  work  of  a  more  practical  and  sometimes  of  a  patriotic 
character.  If  there  remains  much  land  which  might  be  planted 
with  advantage  to  the  country  as  a  whole,  this  is  not  due  to  any 
reluctance  to  plant  on  the  part  of  the  landowners,  but  to  their  natural 
disinclination  to  incur  serious  risks,  and  to  withdraw  capital  from 
more  immediately  profitable  employment.  Our  arboricultural 
societies  arc  kept  up  to  a  large  extent  by  landowners  who  are 
zealous  promoters  of  forestry  education  and  training.  The  British 
landowners  are  doing  what  they  can  ;  but  the  work  which  1ms  to  be 
done  is  too  great  for  private,  and  too  slowly  remunerative  for  com- 
pany, enterprise.  What  private  enterprise  cannot  do,  however,  the 
State  might  do,  not  only  without  loss  but  with  profit  to  the  nation. 
State  initiative  and  control  in  this  matter  would  not  be  open  to  the 
charge  of  benefiting  one  class  at  the  expense  of  the  rest.  The 
benefit  would,  in  one  form  or  another,  be  felt  by  all  classes.  Timber 
is  a  commodity  which  is  bound  up  with  all  the  conveniences  of  life ; 


The  Anticipated  Scarcity  of  Timber,  6i 

and  the  physical  benefits  to  be  derived  from  a  judiciously  regulated 
ratio  between  woodland  and  open  fields  would  be  shared  by  all 
classes.  It  would  be  an  extravagance  to  say,  as  some  have  done, 
that  Great  Britain  could  be  made  to  grow  all  the  timber  she  needs 
without  interference  with  other  land  industries  j  but  if  she  could  be 
got  to  laigely  reduce  the  quantity  imported,  the  advantage  would  be 
universally  felt  when  the  stress  of  higher  prices  came — as  it  must 
com^  however  speedily  the  great  timber-producing  countries  set 
about  the  work  of  scientifically  cultivating  their  forests.  The  evil 
has  already  gone  so  far  that  it  would  be  too  optimistic  to  hope  that 
a  temporary  scarcity  can  be  avoided.  Such  a  scarcity  is  inevitable  ; 
but  to  us  in  Great  Britain,  at  least,  its  severity  would  be  diminished, 
and  its  duration  shortened,  if  some  system  of  State  forestry  were 
at  once  initiated. 

ARTHUR  RANSOM. 


64 


The  Gentleman  s  Magazine, 


Catherme  had  a  humorous  way  of  referring  to  her  vast  empire 
as  "  my  little  household."  While  they  were  in  the  Crimea  she  said 
to  De  S^gur— 

"  ni  bet  a  wager,  M.  le  Comic,  that  at  this  moment  your  fine 
ladies,  your  fashionables,  and  your  iiferati  at  Paris  pit)-  you  greatly 
for  having  to  travel  in  this  country  of  bears,  amidst  barbarians  and 
with  a  tiresome  Ccarina.  I  respect  your  learned  men,  but  I  love 
the  uncultivated  better ;  for  my  own  part  I  only  wish  to  know  what 
is  necessary  for  the  management  of  my  little  hcuse/iold.^* 

"Your  Majesty,"  replied  the  Count,  "amuses  yourself  at  our 
expense.  You  well  know  that  no  person  in  France  thinks  of  you  in 
that  manner.  Voltaire  is  a  sufticiently  brilliant  and  clear  inter- 
preter to  your  Majesty  of  our  opinions  and  sentiments.  You  should 
rather  be  sometimes  discontented  with  the  species  of  fear  and 
jealousy  which  the  prodigious  increase  oi  your  littU  Itousthold %\y^% 
to  the  greatest  Powers." 

France  was  a  great  upholder  of  Turkey,  and  tlie  Empress, 
referring  to  this,  said  lo  the  ambassador — 

*'  Avouez  que  vos  Turcs  sont  de  bien  vilaines  gens,  et  qu*il  est 
dommage  dc  les  voir  camper  sur  le  Bosphore." 

The  Count  diplomatically  replied,  "  Que  votre  Majestd  prenne 
I'engagemcnt  que  d'autres  ni  plus  vilaines  ni  plus  beaux  ne  sc 
prt^nteront  dans  les  eaux  du  Bosphore." 

The  Comle  de  S^r  was  an  excellent  diplomatist  as  well  as  an 
agreeable  trifler.  He  did  not  spend  all  his  time  in  writing  plays  for 
the  theatre  at  "The  Hermitage, "  or  inventing  rhymes.  For  years 
the  French  ambassadors  had  been  striving  to  make  a  commercial 
treaty  with  Russia^  and  obtain  for  French  merchants  advantages 
enjoyed  by  the  English.  De  S^gur  seized  the  moment  when  there 
happened  to  be  a  strong  political  feeling  against  Engbnd  to  press 
the  Treaty  question,  and  carried  it  through  to  the  satisfaction  both 
of  his  master  and  the  Empress,  who  presented  him  with  her  portrait 
set  in  diamonds,  a  set  of  valuable  furs,  and  the  sum  of  40,000  francs. 

The  French  Revolution  brought  the  Comte  de  S^gur's  mission 
to  an  abrupt  termination.  His  S3'mpathies  were  strongly  with  the 
democrats,  and  he  insisted  on  returning  to  France.  No  persuasions 
on  Ihc  part  of  the  Empress  were  of  any  avail.  After  his  departure 
Catherine  showed  great  animosity  against  the  Rcvolulionista,  and 
caused  invectives  to  be  published  against  them.  The  consequencK 
was  that  she,  in  her  turn,  became  a  target  for  abuse,  and  the  Count, 
who  probably  knew  more  about  the  private  life  of  the  Empress  than 
any  man  out  of  Russia,  is  said  to  have  inspired  the  pamphlets  which 


Catherine  II.  and  ike  CanUe  de  Signr.       65 

appeared  against  her.  Catherine's  conduct  furnished  abundant 
material  for  her  enemies,  and  it  is  quite  po^ible  that  De  S^nr 
turned  informer.  But  it  is  only  fair  at  the  same  time  to  remember 
that  he  has  left  among  his  own  records  a  very  discriminating  and 
unprejudiced  description  of  the  Empress.  According  to  him 
Cathmne's  habits  were  simple  and  somewhat  austere.  She  rose  at 
six  and  lighted  her  own  fire,  and  gave  the  morning  hours  to  work 
with  her  Ministers  and  Government  officials.  She  was  served  at 
table  with  as  Uttle  ^remony  as  a  private  person.  Her  pleasures 
never  interfered  with  her  business,  and  she  had  such  a  graq>  of 
a&irs  that  her  Bfinisters  were  more  like  secretaries,  all  the  most 
important  despatches  being  written  at  her  dictation.  "  Le  g&iie  de 
Catherine  £tait  vaste^  son  esprit  fin ;  on  vpysut  en  elle  un  melange 
^tonnai^  des  quality  qu'on  tronve  le  plus  rarement  ramies.  Trop 
sensible  aux  plaisirs  et  cependant  assidue  au  travail,  elle  £tait 
natureUe  dans  sa  vie  priv6e,  dissimul^  dans  sa  politique;  son 
ambiticm  ne  connaissait  pas  de  bome^  mais  elte  la  dirigeait  avec 
prudence.  Omstante  non  dans  ses  passions  mais  dans  ses  amiti^ 
elle  s*£tait  fait  en  administration  et  en  politique  des  prindpes  fixes ; 
jamais  elle  n'abandonna  ni  un  ami  ni  un  projet." 

GEORGIANA  HILL. 


VM.  CCXO.     KO.  3047. 


Tfu  Gentlemans  Magazine, 


THE   COLERIDGE   COUNTRY. 

AMONG  the  many  vicissitudes  in  the  life  of  Samuel  Taylor 
Coleridge,  there  was  only  one  spot  that  possessed  for  him  the 
trae  affinities  of  home.  Not  the  Lake  District,  not  Nether  Stowey, 
not  the  dreamed-of  elysium  on  tlie  banks  of  the  Susquehanna,  but 
a  villi^e  among  the  hills  that  cradle  the  brawling  Otter,  and  the 
scenes  of  which  that  \'illage  is  the  centre,  can  alone  claim  the  dis- 
tinctive appellation  of  "  The  Coleridge  Country."  "  For  the  world 
in  general,"  says  a  biographer  of  the  poet,  "the  name  of  Coleridge 
is  so  indissolubly  connected  with  the  Lake  country  and  the  Lake 
poets,  that  the  fact  of  his  being  by  birth  a  Devonshire  man  is  almost 
forgotten."  It  was  in  the  village  of  Ottery  St.  Mary  that  he  first 
saw  the  light ;  in  point  of  time  the  place  can  claim  but  few  years  of 
his  existence,  but  it  remained  to  him,  throughout  life,  the  dearest 
spot  on  earth,  and  however  Ulysses-like  his  subsequent  wanderings 
may  have  been,  a  lengthening  chain  of  memories  and  associations 
kept  his  mind  in  touch  with  the  scenes  among  which  his  earliest  ties 
were  formed.  It  was,  so  to  speak,  the  metropolis  of  his  affections, 
and  thither  until  the  end  all  the  avenues  of  his  fancy  and  his 
thoughts  tended. 

His  poetry  abounds  in  allusions  to  these  boyhood  haunts.  The 
earliest  notes  that  he  uttered  to  the  world  are  inspired  by  memories 
of  Ollery.  In  the  dedication  of  his  first-published  volume  to  his 
brother,  the  Rev.  George  Coleridge  (which  resembles  Goldsmith's 
very  similar  dedication  of  "  The  Traveller  "  to  his  brother,  the  Rev. 
Henry  Goldsmith,  in  nothing  so  much  as  in  its  longings  for  his  first 
home  and  its  pensive  regrets  for  wasted  years  of  wandering),  he  says : 

A  blessed  lot  hath  he,  who  haviDg  past 

His  youth  and  early  manhood  in  the  stir 

And  tuimuit  or  the  woild,  letreais  at  length  .  .  . 

To  the  Hme  dwelling  inhere  his  fathen  dwelt. 


To  me  the  Eternal  Wisdom  hath  dispensed 
A  diflereot  fortune  and  more  difTerent  nund  ; 


Thf  CsSgFw^ 


He  was  never  vcaty  cf  "'"''-■"■t  : 
sbevn.  Accpufipg  lo  ilie  iiiHTi'iCBg  s^  shl 
nearif  lost  fais  life  liriwri  iB«aBB:v^>K  3m  ^ar  laesm  joobc 
the  anluiii  of  db  aflcQaoo  fcr  £.  Obe  of  Ics  &i>JKcie:  <»*wq^  ^^i 
the  **  Pizie^  Pinloar/  a  saodr  eamiLiLC.  ic  die  s&  ie  ae  -mnmA- 
coTcnd  hiD  orerimigBi^  iSie  bue.  Iz  zensHB  3&^vr  3c  wcini  •—^tt 
die  same  uanlUiiai  as  vriea  r&e  poeE  kaev  3L  7^  ties  3  :■£ 
trees  " ixriertvined  widi  v3desz  irinieL  "ia  ■fiip".  ;s^  v:^  j^' 
fonn  the  odlii^  of  the  tsrt :  33  Bc3es  ^>&  «i3s  se  bgo-c  v!q 

own  and  those  of  his  iMutLov  'cK.'*'as  at  'nWti^f 
band  of  their  cfafldhood.*  Tbxbcf  be  jsrC  h  rsacn.  "-c  it.  aac 
sequestered  reocst  «oiiU  mr^Tgc  is  •S-iy  kc^  o*^  21*^x9019 
that  were  at  ooce  fas  weakness  xsd  "bia  s:r:s^±.  ^tt  teras.  v 
his  ovennasterii^  chanc,  asd  =»  in,:^^  cf  -^^jp  ^-^rtri'-iyiry  ai£ 
impotence  dnt  weO-ni^  prored  ha  rxr:.     " T-nfi^rT^  b£  btx^ 


Of  wild  OBES  2in&  tS^K'  T  I  II  j '  K^^ 

Of  ndoiisoc  sxc  sxc^  sbskic. 


In  his  lines  **  To  a  Beantiftil  Spring  in  a  VuK^e^*  be  ^1^    mi, 
his  £Avoazite  streain  in  terms  of  no  sdnzed  ^frrrion  : 

Oaeemmtt  sweet  Kreaa,  wi&tiem  tux.  «*■*— ^^^  »>**y 

I  blem  thy  Milky  waun  ecU  Bad  dor 

Eicaped  the  fli^EBg  of  die  nooB-cide  kons  ; 

WnhoDC  frab  ptiacd  atf^FSemc  Amtu 

(Ere  froB  tbe  Kffayr-bwnud  fank  I  tsx,< 

My  bagaid  hud  daS  wratb  ifay  Brwj  hb. 

Tberattic  here  at  r-r  ttTi  imbijh  yi^t^^^ 

WUtfliaE  km  dima,  lau  ipoa  tn  onA  ; 

Or  WaitiBE,  pwnesvitk  hope-ai^|ed  die^ 

To  Ktt  die  BBdb-loTed  bsIA  wi  ■humi  i]  uaA. 

Sbt,  TBUilj  KODdM  of  bcT  dice's  eoaaaid, 

Loitas  tbe  lone -filled  pitcker  ia  bet  hwL 


68  Th4  Gentleman' s  Magazine, 

Unboftstful  stfeam  !  tliy  fount  with  pebbled  falls, 
The  faded  foim  of  past  delight  rccilU, 
What  time  the  moming  lun  of  hope  arose 
And  ftU  was  joy.  .  .   . 

The  satae  theme  inspires  him  again  in  the  lines  "  Written  in 
Early  Youth": 

Dev  native  farook  t  like  pctcc  so  pkctdly 
Smoothing  through  fertile  fields  thy  current  meek. 
Dear  native  brook  !  where  6rst  young  poesy, 
Sured  wildly  eager  in  her  noon-tide  dream, 
Where  blameless  pleasures  dimples  quiet's  cheek 
As  water-tilies  ripple  a  slow  ntream. 
Oc&r  DAtivc  haunu  !  where  virtue  still  U  gay. 
Where  friendship's  fixed  sur  sheds  a  mellowed  ray ; 
No  more  slull  deck  your  pensive  pleasures  sweet, 
Willi  wreaths  of  sober  hue  my  evening  seat ; 
Vet  dear  to  Fancy's  eye  your  varied  scene 
Of  wood,  hill,  vale  and  -iparkling  brook  t>etweett  } 
Vet  sweet  to  Fancy's  eu  the  warbled  song 
That  soars  on  morning's  wing,  your  viles  among. 

The  beautiful  sonnet  "To  the  River  Oiler"  affords  yet  further 
prooC  iT  such  were  required,  of  his  tender  and  lingering  regard 
for  the  scenes  of  his  childhood  : 

Dear  native  brook  I    Wild  ictreamlet  of  the  West  t 
How  miuay  various-fated  yean  have  passed, 
What  blissful  and  what  anguished  hours,  since  last 
I  skimmed  the  smooth  thin  stnne  along  thy  breast. 
Numbering  its  light  leaps  !     Vet  so  deep  impressed 
Sink  the  sweet  scenes  of  childhood,  that  mine  eyes 
I  never  ^hut  amid  the  sunny  blaze, 
But  strsigbt  with  all  their  tints  thy  waters  rise  ; 
Thy  aossing  plank,  thy  margin's  willowy  mate 
And  bedded  sand  that,  veined  with  various  dyes, 
Gleamed  thro'  thy  bright  transparence  to  the  gaze  I 
Vlsioiis  of  childhood  I  Oft  liave  yc  beguiled 
Lone  manhood  cares,  yet  waking  fondest  sighs. 
Ah  !  that  once  more  I  were  a  carelcs  child. 

In  their  aspects  and  history  the  scenes  so  celebrated  are  not 
unworthy  of  the  poef  s  devotion  to  them.  Ottery  St  Mary  might  be 
summarily  described,  in  the  language  of  the  gazetteer,  as  an  ancient 
market-town  situate  in  a  fertile  valley  on  the  eastern  bank  of  the 
River  Otter.  But  this  would  convey  no  adequate  idea  of  the 
quiet,  old-world  charm,  the  sense  of  retirement  and  seclusion,  and 
the  sleepy  atmosphere  of  poetic  association  that  linger  about  its 
streets,  and  seem  to  impregnate  the  life  and  thought  of  the  place 


The  Coleridge  Country.  69 

Owing  to  its  proximity  to  Exeter  it  has  played  an  important  part  in 
the  histoiy  of  this  country.  During  the  long  and  dis^cting  period 
of  the  Wars  of  the  Roses,  the  splendid  days  of  Elizabethan  enteiprise^ 
the  chances  and  changes  of  the  time  of  Cromwell,  the  little  town  upon 
the  Otter  figures  again  and  again.  It  was  here  that  Henry  VI. 
lingered  on  bis  way  to  Exeter  what  time  the  dty  streets  ran  with  the 
rival  blood  of  Lancaster  and  York.  It  was  here  that  Raldgh  made 
his  home.  It  was  here,  at  a  room  in  Hayes  Court  (the  seat  of  the 
late  Lord  Chief  Justice  Coleridge),  that  Cromwell  held  a  convention 
for  the  purpose  of  raising  men  and  money  to  fight  the  forces  of 
Charles ;  and  it  was  bete  that  Fairfax  had  bis  headquarters  when, 
after  the  splendid  victory  of  Naseby,  he  marched  to  quell  the 
opposition  in  the  West.  Like  Exeter,  but  unlike  Plymouth  and  the 
northern  part  of  the  county,  Ottery  adhered  to  the  Royalist  cause 
during  the  civil  wars  of  the  seventeenth  century,  and  it  was  probably 
on  this  account  that  the  two  great  leaders  of  the  armies  of  the  Parlia- 
ment chose  it  as  their  temporary  abidingplace.  But  the  literary  associ- 
ations of  a  locality  are  ever  more  interesting  and  abiding  than  those 
of  a  martial  character,  and  Ottery  is  prouder  of  being  the  birthplace 
of  Coleridge  than  of  any  real  or  imaginary  distinction  that  kings  or 
potentates  may  have  conferred  upon  it.  Thackeray  was  a  frequent 
sojourner  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  what  the  author  of  "West- 
ward Ho  ! "  was  to  Bideford,  that,  to  a  great  extent,  the  author  of 
"  Pendennis  "  was  to  Ottery  St  Mary.  Beneath  a  thin  disguise,  we 
have  little  difficulty  in  recognising  the  identity  of  Clavering  St.  Mary 
with  that  of  the  town  upon  the  Otter,  and  Coleridge  himself  has  not 
given  us  more  charming  pictures  of  the  place  than  are  to  be  found 
in  the  pages  of  "  Pendennis."  What,  for  instance,  could  be  more 
charming  or  true  to  the  facts  than  his  description  of  "  The  Happy 
Village"?— 

"  Looking  at  the  little  old  town  of  Clavering  St  Mary  from  the 
London  Road,  as  it  runs  by  the  Lodge  at  Fairoaks,  and  seeing  the 
rapid  and  shining  Brawl  winding  down  from  the  town  and  skirting 
the  woods  of  Clavering  Park,  and  the  ancient  church  tower  and 
peaked  roofs  of  the  houses  rising  up  amongst  trees  and  old  walls, 
behind  which  swells  a  fair  background  of  sunshiny  hills  that  stretch 
fit>m  Claverii^  westward  towards  the  sea,  the  place  looks  so  cheery 
and  comfortable  that  many  a  traveller's  heart  must  have  yearned 
towards  it  fi-om  the  coach-top,  and  he  must  have  thought  that  it  waa 
in  such  a  calm  friendly  nook  he  would  like  to  shelter  at  the  end  of 
life's  struggle."  The  original  of  "  Fairoaks,**  the  family  demesne  of 
the  Pendenniaes,  differs  in  nothing  but  the  name  from  a  place  well 


70 


The  Gentleman  s  Magazine, 


knovn  in  Ottery,  where  Thackeray  used  frequently  to  stay  in  his 
holiday  visits  lo  the  West.  "Clavering  Park"  is  no  less  easily 
distinguishable ;  "  the  rapid  and  shining  Brawl,"  celebrated  as  the 
scene  of  Mr.  Pen's  fishing  and  philandering  expeditions,  is  no  other 
than  the  Otter  itself.  Even  the  tree,  in  the  hoUow  of  which  the 
novelist's  hero  used  to  deposit  his  box  of  ground-bait  and  other  fish- 
ing commodities,  and  which  afterwards  served  the  purpose  of  Love's 
post  in  his  passage  at  hearts  with  Miss  Amery,  is  known  and 
indicated  as  an  object  of  rare  interest  today.  Thackeray,  in  his  own 
inimitable  way,  has  caught  and  expressed  that  drowsy,  old-world 
atmosphere  so  generally  associated  with  ancient  respectable  market- 
towns,  and  so  particularly  inseparable  from  Ottery. 

An  object  of  important  interest  in  the  village  is  the  Abbey 
Church,  which  rises  up  on  the  south  side  of  the  market  "with  its 
great  grey  towers,  of  which  the  sun  illuminates  the  delicate  carvings, 
deepening  the  shadows  of  the  huge  buttresses,  and  gilding  the 
glittering  windows  and  flaming  vanes."    Were  it  not  a  little  beside  the 
mark,  it  would  be  no  uninteresting  task  to  sit  at  ihc  feet  of  our  good 
friend   Dr.  Fortman  and  learn    something  of  the  history  of  this 
venerable  pile.    How  it  fared  beneath  the  hands  of  the    pious 
Vandals  of  Puritan  days ;  how  it  survived  its  rude  and  repeated 
purifications    of  fire ;    how    many    of  wise    and  of  warlike  have 
worshipped  within  its  walls ;  what  scenes  of  bravery  and  of  blood  j 
what  chances  and  changes,  what  hopes  and  fears  its  aged  eyes  have 
looked  down    upon !     In  the  long  array  of  names,   more  or  less 
distinguished,  that  occur    in   connection    with   the  edifice,    there 
is  one  that  appeals  to  us  with  a  sense  of   peculiar  recognition. 
It  wa.";  probably  about  the  commencement  of  the  sixteenth  century 
that  Alexander   Barclay   was  appointed   by   Bishop  Cornish  to  a 
chaplaincy  at  Ottery  St.  Mary.     He  was  one  of  the  last,  as  well  as 
one  of  the  most  popular,  jioets  of  the  era  rhat  immediately  preceded 
the  great  sunburst  of  Elizabetlun  song.     In  the  light  of  retrospective 
criticism  he  does  not  occupy  a  very  exalted  position  in  the  scale  of 
poetic  merit,  but  witli  his  contemporaries  "  The  Ship  of  Fools  "  was 
popular  for  the  unsparing  onslaught  il  made  upon  the  follies  and 
vices  of  the  times.    To  the  reader  of  to-day  its  chief  interest  is  in  the 
picture  it  gives  of  contemporary  manners  and  custom.-i.     It  abounds 
in  allusions  to  the  locality  and  people  in  and  among  which  and 
whom  the  poet  lived.     At  the  end  of  the  Latin  dedication  prefixed 
to  the  i>oem  the  following  note  appears :  "This  present  boke,  named 
the  *  Shyp  of  Folys  of  the  Worlde,'  was  translated  in  the  College 
Ssymc  Olery  in  the  cotmtc  of  Devonshyre :   out  of  Latin,  French 


The  Coleridge  Country. 


\ 


7« 


and  Doche  into  Englysshe  Tonge  by  Alexander  Barclaye,  Preste ; 
■nd  at  ihat  time  chaplen  in  the  sayde  college  :  Translated  in  the 
year  of  our  Lord  God  MCCCCC,  VIIJ." 

In  modem  times  the  name  of  the  Rev.  John  Coleridge,  Vicar  of 
the  parish,  and  Chaplain-Priest,  and  Master  of  the  King's  School,  ia 
one  which,  for  oar  present  purpose,  is  more  important  than  that  of 
Barclay's.  Apart  from  the  interest  that  attaches  to  him  as  father  of 
the  author  of  "  OiHstabel,"  he  was  himself  a  personality  to  be 
reckoned  with.  He  was  one  of  the  best  Hebrew  scholars  of  his  lime. 
Il  is  said  that,  while  preaching,  he  would  frequently  exclaim,  "These, 
my  brethren,  are  the  words  of  the  Holy  Spirit,"  proceeding  to  quote 
from  the  Hebrew  original,  to  the  admiration,  doubtless,  if  not  to  the 
edification,  of  his  rustic  hearers.  De  Quincey  tells  several  stories  of 
his  eccentricity  and  absent-mindedness,  some  of  which,  however,  are 
protiably  more  legendary  than  true.  His  son  Samuel  says  of  him 
that  "in  learning,  good-hcartedness,  absentness  of  mind,  and  exces- 
sive ignorance  of  the  world,  he  was  a  perfect  Parson  Adams."  He 
was  the  author  of  several  books,  including  a  "Critical  Latin 
Grammar  "  and  "  Miscellaneous  Dissertations  arising  from  17th  and 
iSih  chapters  of  the  Book  of  Judges." 

Next  to  the  church,  the  greatest  object  of  interest  in  the  village 
was,  until  recently,  the  Free  Grammar  School,  commonly  called  the 
"  King's  School,"  founded  by  Henry  VIU.  Of  this  establishment 
the  elder  Coleridge  was,  as  has  been  indicated,  formerly  the  master; 
so  also  was  the  Rev.  Mr.  Wapshott,  of  "  Pendcnnis."  On  the 
death  of  his  father  in  1781,  Coleridge  became  a  day  scholar  at  the 
King's  School,  and  continued  in  this  capacity  until  early  in  the 
following  year,  when  a  presentation  to  Christ's  Hospital  was  obtained 
for  him.  The  school  was  some  few  years  since  pulled  down,  and  a 
garden  now  adorns  the  site  where  once  it  stood.  Some  of  Coleridge's 
biographers  assert  that  the  old  King's  School  was  actually  the  birth- 
place of  the  poet,  but  the  Rectory— "a  stout,  broad-shouldered 
brick  house  of  the  reign  of  Anne,"  as  Thackeray  describes  it — has 
probably  a  better  claim  to  this  distinction. 

In  [783  the  orphaned  youth  was  **  transplanted  "  from  the  place 

of  his  "  first  domestic  loves  "  and  inducted  into  his  new  life  as 

ft  tivcried  school-boy  in  th«  depths 
or  the  huge  city. 

Thus,  "Tom  by  early  sorrow  from  his  native  seal,"  it  is  not  un- 
natural that  his  thoughts  should  revert  to  those  early  scenes,  as  to 
an  Eden  from  which  an  unkind  Fate  had  banished  him.  That  this 
as  so  is  evident  from  the  references  to  this  period  which  occui  vr, 
bis  later  poems.    Years  a/ier  ihe^  walls  of  the  o\d  Gte^  Yrat^Xa^ 


72 


Tht  GentUiftan  s  Magazine. 


ceased  to  echo  the  accents  of  "  the  inspired  charity  boy,"  in  the 
solitude  of  his  cottage  at  Stowey,  he  recalls  some  of  the  impressions 
of  those  lonely  schoolboy  days.  Musing  by  the  low-bumt  fire  at 
midnight,  and  gazing  on  that  fluttering  film  of  soot  upon  the  grate, 
which,  country  superstition  avers,  betokens  the  advent  of  a  stranger 
at  one's  beartli,  he  says : 

How  oft  at  School,  with  most  believing  miiul, 

Presogcfiil,  have  I  gaiwl  tipon  the  bnr» 

To  watch  Ihe  fluttering  atmngcr  1    Aod  u  oftr 

With  uodosed  liJii  olicady  have  I  dreametl 

Of  my  sweet  Birthplace,  and  the  old  church  lower. 

Whose  belli,  the  poor  nun's  only  music,  ctatig 

From  mom  to  evening  all  the  hot  Fiii-day, 

So  sweetly  that  they  stirred  and  btunted  me 

With  8  wild  pic&surc,  falling  od  my  car 

Most  lilce  articulate  sounds  of  things  to  come  I 

So  gazed  I  till  the  soothing  thingt  I  dreamt 

Lulled  me  to  sleep,  and  &leep  prolonged  my  dreams  I 

And  ED  I  brooded  alt  the  following  morn. 

Awed  by  the  stem  preceptor's  Dice,  mine  eye 

Fixed  with  mock  study  on  my  swimming  book  : 

Save  if  the  door  half-ojicncd,  aod  I  snatched 

A  hasty  glance,  uid  still  my  heart  IcAped  up, 

For  still  I  hoped  to  see  the  stianger's  face, 

Townsman,  or  aunt,  or  sister  more  beloved. 

My  playmate  when  we  both  were  clotlied  alike  1 

There  was  at  least  one  among  his  schoolfellows  who  was  able  to 
understand  and  appreciate  these  dreams  and  longings  of  the  poor 
friendless  boy.  In  •'Recollections  of  Christ's  Hospital,"  "The 
Melancholy  Elia,"  one  of  Coleridge's  earliest  friends,  speaks  for  him 
in  the  following  passage :  "  My  parents  and  those  who  should  care 
for  me  were  far  away.  Those  few  acquaintances  of  theirs  whotn  they 
could  reckon  upon  as  being  kind  to  me  in  the  great  city,  after  a  little 
forced  notice  which  they  had  the  grace  to  take  of  me  on  my  6rst 
arrival  in  town,  soon  grew  tired  of  my  holiday  visits.  They  seemed 
to  them  to  recur  too  often,  though  I  thought  them  few  enough ;  and 
one  after  another  they  all  failed  nac,  and  I  felt  mjscU'  alone  among 
some  six  hundred  playmates.  ,  .  .  How  in  my  dreams  would  my 
native  town  (far  in  the  West)  come  back  with  its  church,  and  trees, 
and  faces !  And  I  would  wake  weeping,  and  in  the  anguish  of  my 
heart  exclaim  upon  sweet  Calne  in  Wiltshire.*" 

"  'Calne'  of  course,"  says  Mr.  J,  Dykes  Cam)>bell  in  his  "IJfe 
of  Coleridge,"  "  is  only  Lamb's  device  for  concealing  bis  friend's 
identity,  and  was  selected,  doubtless*  partly  for  its  cadence  and  partly 
because  Coleridge  resided  there  shonly  before  going  to  Highgatc. 

With  his  entrance  to  Christ's  Hospital,  Coleridge's  persooal  con- 


The  Coleridge  Country,  73 

nection  with  Ottery  was  practically  at  an  end.  Although  the  place 
seems  never  to  have  lost  its  old  charm  for  him,  and  his  holiday  visits 
thereto  in  after  years  were  not  infrequent,  he  appears  never  to  have 
penioanently  settled  there  after  his  first  exile  from  it.  It  is  possible 
that  he  spent  some  time  there  in  17S4,  17S9,  and  1790.  Again  in 
1 791,  between  school  and  college,  it  is  reasonably  certdn  that  he 
went  home,  and  the  poem  entitled  "  Happiness  "  bears  internal  signs 
of  having  been  written  at  Ottery  at  this  time.  The  long  vacation  of 
X793  appears  to  have  been  spent  with  his  family  at  Ottery.  To  this 
period  belong  the  verses  called  "  Kisses  "  and  "  The  Rose,"  which 
were  originally  addressed  to  Miss  F.  Nisbett,  of  Plymouth,  whither 
the  author  accompanied  his  eldest  brother  on  a  visit.  The  "  Song 
of  the  Pixies  "  appears  also  to  have  been  written  on  the  occasion  of 
this  home-going. 

After  his  departure  from  Cambridge  in  1794  there  appears  to 
have  been  a  breach  of  the  friendly  relations  existing  between  himself 
and  his  family;  but  in  the  summer  of  1796  he  paid  a  visit  of  recon- 
ciliation to  Ottery.  Of  this  visit  he  says,  in  a  letter  to  Rev.  J.  P. 
Estlin,  of  Bristol,  a  friend  and  frequent  correspondent  of  the  poet's : 
"  I  was  received  by  my  mother  with  transport,  and  by  my  brother 
George  with  joy  and  tenderness,  and  by  my  other  brothers  with  affec- 
tionate civility." 

In  a  letter  to  his  brother  George  in  1798  he  proposed  another 
visit  to  Ottery,  but  this  appears  not  to  have  been  carried  out,  and  on 
his  next  return  thither  in  August  1799  he  was  accompanied  by  his 
wife.  Southey,  who  with  his  wife  had  set  out  for  Sidmouth  at  the 
same  time,  was  detained  with  the  Coleridges  at  Ottery  for  some  days. 
The  gathering  seems  to  have  been  a  very  happy  one,  notwithstanding 
the  frequent  disputes  that  took  place  between  Coleridge  and  his 
brothers  touching  the  extravagant  political  and  religious  views  that 
the  fonner  had  espoused.  Southey,  in  a  letter  to  his  friend  John  May, 
gives  an  interesting  description  of  the  family  gathering  :  "  We  were 
all  a  good  deal  amused,"  he  says,  "by  the  old  lady  [Coleridge's 
mother].  She  could  not  hear  what  was  going  on,  but  seeing  Samuel 
arguing  with  his  brothers,  took  it  for  granted  that  he  must  be  wrong, 
and  cried  out,  *  Ah !  if  your  poor  father  had  been  alive,  he'd  soon 
have  convinced  you.' " 

This  was  Coleridge's  last  visit  to  his  native  place.  A  lasting 
rupture  arose  between  him  and  his  family  in  consequence  of  the 
former's  proposed  separation  from  his  wife.  A  return  visit  was 
suggested  in  1807,  but  it  was  never  carried  into  effect,  and  Ottery 
saw  its  best  and  noblest  son  no  more. 

PEKCIVXL  H.  ^.  K\:MX. 


74 


The  Genilentan's  Magazine, 


MR.    WYATT. 


HE  had  the  &ir  of  a  music-master.  We  were  unanimous  on  that 
point.  The  pursuit  of  no  other  calling  could  produce  that 
look  of  pensive  longing,  or  the  pathos  of  those  hollow  cheeks  and 
that  emaciated  stoop.  Yes,  he  was,  be  must  be,  a  music-master ; 
and  our  opinion  was  slrcngthcned  when,  after  I  had  been  hard  at 
work  all  one  morning  on  Chopin's  "  Fifth  Prelude,"  near  an  open 
window,  a  neat  professional  card  was  found  in  the  letter-box, 
inscribed  :  "Mr.  Wyatt,  Professor  of  Music,  156  Tinterden  Road." 

*'  Peter,"  I  said,  **  that  black,  cadaverous  man  is  a  muslc-mastcr, 
and  he  lives  in  Tinterden  Road.  He  heard  me  practising  this 
morning,  and  thought  I  needed  a  few  lessons,  so  he's  left  a  card  to 
show  me  that  I  need  not  go  far  for  instruction." 

After  this,  Mr.  Wyatt  became  an  object  of  daily  interest,  as  he 
passed  up  and  down  the  Terrace,  intent  on  his  high  and  artistic 
calling.  Not  that  he  possessed  any  of  those  melodramatic  adjuncts 
peculiar  to  musical  genius.  He  had  no  mane  of  waving  hair ;  he 
was  not  clean-shaven  ;  he  wore  no  velvet  coal.  On  the  contrary, 
he  had  close- cropped,  black,  oily  hair,  and  a  stubbly  moustache,  and 
was  neatly  attired  in  black  serge.  In  fact,  as  Peter  said,  he  looked 
like  a  young  man  from  a  draper's  shop,  turned  dissenting  parson, 
who  combined  the  clerical  with  the  lay  garb  so  successfully  as  to 
produce  only  a  neat  demureness  of  appearance.  Nor  was  there  the 
fascination  of  Bohemia  about  him.  No,  he  possessed  none  of 
these  attractions.  Twice  every  Sunday,  with  a  targe  prayer-book 
tucked  under  his  arm,  he  passed  up  and  down  the  Terrace  on  bis 
way  to  and  from  church.  "Ah  !  an  organist,"  we  said.  On  these 
occasions  his  woman-kind  accompanied  him.  With  an  elderly 
woman  on  bis  right  arm,  whom  we  conjectured  to  be  hts  mother  or 
molher-in-Iaw,  and  on  his  left  a  tail,  angular  woman,  who  we  at  once 
said  was  his  wife,  or  perhaps  his  sister,  with  a  sweet,  pensive,  yet 
triumphant  smile  upon  his  face,  Ins  walk  along  the  Terrace  partook 
of  the  nature  of  a  saintly  progress.  Such  an  example  of  sanctified 
coquettishncfts  wc  had  never  before  seen  in  a  man.    It  was  absurd, 


Mr.   WyatL 


ridiculous,  e?en  contemptible — opinions  which  were  banished  the 
moment  we  felt  the  influence  or  the  sweet  but  resigned  melancholy 
of  his  careworn  face. 

One  cannot  ridicule  that  which  one  pities. 
It  was  a  real  pleasure  to  ns  when  we  saw  him  riding  a  bicycle. 
How  many  months  of  self-denial  might  not  that  purchase  have  cost 
him?     It  was  rather  a  nice  bicycle,  too,  and  he  rode  it  not  un- 
gracefully. 

Perhaps  Fortune  was  going  to  smile  on  our  music-master.  But, 
aUs  for  the  frailty  of  human  life  and  the  tmcertainty  of  human 
hope ! 

When  next  we  saw  him  he  was  mourning. 

He  passed  down  the  Terrace  that  Sunday  as  before,  but  the 
saintly  friskiness  was  gone.  He  wore  a  d^^p  hat-band,  and  carried 
blade  Icid  gloves  and  an  umbrella. 

How  hard  it  seemed  that  to  lives  so  little  joyous,  spent  not  in 
grinding  or  sordid,  but — what  is  perhaps  more  painful  to  some 
natures— /afrt^'n>^  poverty,  the  separation  of  death  should  come  ! 
We  felt  not  a  little  sympathy  for  Mr.  Wyatt,  and  a  melancholy 
curiosity  as  to  the  nature  of  the  loss  he  had  sustained.  On  the  other 
hand,  we  felt  that  the  consolations  of  his  religion  must  be  bearing 
him  up  under  his  afHiction.  It  is  at  such  a  time  as  this  that  one 
appreciates  the  worth  of  religion.  Mr.  Wyatt  mourned  for  fully 
twelve  months,  although,  as  time  went  on,  the  burden  of  his  woe 
appeared  lighter.  In  the  early  days  of  our  interest  our  observation 
had  been  more  general  than  particular.  We  had  seen  him  surrounded 
by  his  woman  folk  and  had  vaguely  characterised  them  as  his  mother 
or  sister  or  wife,  or  what  not.  Now  we  became  aware  that  his 
companions  never  exceeded  two  in  number.  The  third — there  had 
often  been  a  third — had  disappeared.  She  it  was  whom  death  had 
taken. 

But — wife,  sister,  or  mother— Mr.  Wyatt  was  recovering  from  her 
loss.  His  step  had  once  more  resumed  its  jaunty  demureness :  he 
even  seemed  to  be  indulging  in  a  reverential  witticism  on  the 
Sunday's  sermon  with  one  or  other  of  the  clinging  women  whom  he 
supported.  It  is  not  pleasant  to  think  that  the  dead  are  so  easily 
Corgotten,  but  who  could  resent  the  fact  that  happiness  in  some 
measure  was  returning  to  a  life  of  such  sombre  possibihties  ? 

Happiness  was  returning  to  Mr.  Wyatt.  Of  that  there  could  be 
no  doubt.  But  we  feared  for  his  health.  In  spite  of  the  bicycle, 
the  purchase  of  which  had  necessitated  such  economy,  Mr.  Wyatt 
was  finding  it  necessary  to  visit  many  of  his  pupils  in  a  hansom  cab. 


I 


unsom  became  more  frequeni 
occasions  Mr,  Wyatt  was  not  alone. 

In  spite  of  his  poverty,  his  asceticism,  and  ap| 
death,  K(r.  Wyatt  evidently  intended  to  marry. 

We  had  but  fleeting  glimpses  of  the  lady  of 
seemed  neither  very  young  nor  very  pretty.  CI 
have  been,  for,  as  tlic  da)-s  went  by,  Mr.  Wyall's  di 
more  and  more  apparent.  Then  the  bdy  disappear) 
went  to  his  pupils  unattended,  although  he  was  oi 
supported  by  ihe  usual  number  of  feminine  adherents, 

About  this  time  I  left  home  to  pay  a  short  visit. 
Ijack,  my  friends  called,  as  at  other  times,  to  con; 
themselves  on  my  return.  Some  of  them,  however,  ci 
business-like  and  less  pleasant  enand.  They  were  ", 
in  every  sense  of  that  comprehensive  word,  and  the) 
me  if  I  would  take  Geraldine's  Sunday-school  class  ft 
as  she  was  going  away  for  a  week  to  a  wedding,  ai 
attendant. 

Naturally  I  fel  t  somewhat  aggrieved.  I  am 
Curates  had  never  attracted  me,  even  before  my  hair  « 
bachelor  vicars  of  High  Church  tendeacies  always 
chilly  and  neuralgic 

But,  as  I  told  Peter,  if  I  am  not  "good  **  I  am  "t 
taui^t  Geralduic's  class  of  rirl"  ihir  & 


76 


The  Gentleman  s  Magazine, 


But  as  his  health  declined,  his  spirits  rose.  He  became  thinner 
than  ever,  his  face  in  repose  more  melancholy,  but  there  could  be  no 
doubt  tliat  that  gentle,  coquettish  buoyancy  grew  apace. 

One  day  Peter  came  to  roe  and  said  that  he  had  seen  Mr.  Wyatt 
going  down  the  Terrace  just  after  sunset  with  his  arm  round  some 
girl's  waist.  Peter  spoke  rather  under  his  breath  :  we  were  not  in 
the  liabit  of  mentioning  such  tilings,  and  the  idea  in  connection  with 
Mr.  \V)-att  seemed  preposterous-  But  it  was  a  fact,  for  I  saw  the 
same  thing  myself  n  few  days  later. 

The  use  of  the  hansom  became  more  frequent,  and  on  many 
occasions  Mr,  Wyatt  was  not  alone. 

In  spite  of  his  poverty,  his  asceticism,  and  apparent  nearness  to 
death,  Mr.  Wyatt  e\idently  intended  to  marry. 

We  had  but  fleeting  glimpses  of  the  lady  of  his  choice.  She 
seemed  neither  very  young  nor  very  pretty.  Charming  she  must 
have  been,  for,  as  the  days  went  by,  Mr.  Wyatt's  devotion  became 
more  and  more  apparent  Then  the  lady  disappeared.  Mr.  Wyatt 
went  to  his  pupils  unattended,  although  he  was  on  Sundays  still 
supported  by  the  usual  number  of  feminine  adherents. 

About  this  lime  I  left  home  lo  pay  a  short  visit  ^\'Tien  I  came 
back,  my  friends  called,  as  at  other  times,  to  congratulate  roe  or 
themselves  on  my  return.  Some  of  them,  however,  came  on  a  more 
business-like  and  less  pleasant  errand.  They  were  "  good  "  people, 
in  every  sense  of  that  comprehensive  word,  and  they  came  to  ask 
me  if  I  would  take  Geraldine*s  Sunday-school  class  for  one  Sunday, 
OS  she  was  going  away  for  a  week  to  a  wedding,  and  the  gaieties 
attendant. 

Naturally  I  fell  somewhat  aggrieved.  I  am  not  "good," 
Curates  had  never  attracted  me,  even  before  my  hair  was  put  up,  and 
bachelor  vicars  of  High  Church  tendencies  always  make  me  feel 
chilly  and  neuralgic 

But,  as  I  told  Peter,  if  I  am  not  "  good  "  I  am  "  amiable."  So  I 
taught  Geraldine's  class  of  girls  that  Sunday  afternoon.  It  was  my 
first  experience  of  that  kind. 

There  were  collects,  and  hymns,  and  the  ringing  of  bells  to  indi* 
cate  the  exact  moment  for  each.  The  girls  were  uninteresting,  and 
found  the  greatest  difficulty  in  responding  correctly  lo  my  question, 
*'  What  is  thy  Desire  7  "  I  felt  very  weary,  and  even  went  so  far  a& 
to  suppress  a  yawn  in  the  middle  of  a  plaintive  hymu,  when  my 
attention  was  arrested.  .  .  .  Did  I  not  see  our  Mr.  Wyatt  singing, 
Gunoundcd  by  a  group  of  girls? 

He  xt^t  an  organist,  then,  and  this  was  his  church. 


Mr.   Wyaii. 


11 


The  hymn  was  finished,  but  instead  of  a  collect  and  the  benedic- 
tion immediately  following,  as  I  had  been  given  to  understand  they 
would,  Mr.  Wyatt  advanced. 

He  walked  up  the  long  room  with  the  same  air  of  a  saintty 
progress  that  was  so  well-known  to  us  on  the  Terrace.  Arriving  at 
the  reading  desk,  he  paused. 

I  held  my  breath— was  he  going  to  teach  us  to  sing ;  or  was  he 
going  to  sing  himself  as  an  object-lesson  ? 

Neither. 

Turning  from  right  to  left,  with  a  curious  glance  which  seemed 
intended  to  catch  some  eyes  and  pass  by  others,  he  b^an — "  My 
dear  young  ladies." 

Now  there  were  a  few  men  teachers  besides  Mr.  Wyatt  at  the 
Sunday-schoo!,  but  they  were  evidently  not  included  in  his  address. 
This,  then,  was  the  meaning  of  that  discriminating  glance — he  was 
speaking  to  girls  only. 

My  name  is  Celia,  but  I  recoUecl  feeling  a  dim,  uncomfortable 
uncertainty  whether  I  was  not  a  man,  and  ought  to  go.  However, 
the  other  men  stayed,  and,  on  second  thoughts,  I  did  too. 

"  My  dear  young  ladies,"  began  Mr.  Wyatt,  *'  in  looking  back,  as 
one  always  does  when  a  change  from  any  established  order  of  things 
is  imminent,  the  first  feeling  that  one  experiences  is  that  of  regret 
If  ibis  be  the  case  when  leaving  behind  us  unpleasant  memories 
how  much  more  so  when  the  past  has  been  a  happy  one?  The 
kind  interest  that  you  have  always  taken  in  my  poor  affairs  " — here  I 
thought  Mr.  Wyatt  looked  a  triHc  conscious,  and  certainly  more 
than  one  young  lady  blushed — "  makes  me  feel  it  to  be  my  duty,  as 
well  as  my  privilege,  to  inform  you  of  an  important  step  which  I  am 
about  to  uke." 

There  was  a  hushed  expectancy  in  the  air,  and,  as  Mr.  Wyatt 

1  tpoke,  his  audience  hung  upon  his  words.    I  glanced  at  the  faces 

'  around  me.     Here  was  one  with  bright  eyes,  flushed  checks  and 

tremulous  lips.      Her  neighbour    was    differently    affected.      She 

looked  cold,  haughty,  and  so  scornful  that  her  very  scorn  gave  the 

^  lie  to  that  apparent  indi  Terence.    But  Mr.  Wyatt  was  speaking. 

'* My  dear  young  ladies,"  he  repeated,  "I  am  about  to  marry 
r^agun." 

"Ah I  *  widower,  as  we  thought,"  I    murmured   to    myself. 
FThe  temptation   to   took   round  again    at   my  neighbours   was 
inesistible. 

The  scornful  girl  opposite  me  had  bitten  her  Up  till  it  bled. 
Cruel  I    I  looked  another  way,  only  to  meet  the  eyes  of  the  ^izl 


78 


The  Genllemans  Magazine, 


nhose  flushed  cheeks  had  now  turned  pale.  It  would  not  do.  I 
kept  my  glances  to  myself,  and  sat  and  wondered.  What  peculiar 
attraction  for  the  fair  sex  did  this  poor  sallow-faced  musician 
possess  ?  Scornfiil  Miss  Denvcrs  was  a  lady  by  birth  and  education, 
and  her  father,  Dr.  Denvers,  if  not  wealthy,  had  one  of  the  finest 
practices  in  the  neighbourhood  ;  while  pretty,  flushed  Miss  Carlyon, 
I  knew,  had  many  admirers. 

Heedless  of  the  fact  that  Mr.  Wyalt  was  still  speaking,  I  sat  still, 
with  downcast  eyes,  the  one  question  repeating  itself  in  my  mind, 
"  Wliat  can  be  the  attraction  ?  " 

At  that  moment  I  began  to  believe  in  "  magnetism." 
But  Mr.  Wyatt  was  finishing  his  little  address.  I  came  in  for 
his  last  remarks.  1  understood  bim  to  say  that,  as  their  sympathy 
had  not  failed  him  in  his  sorrow,  so  now  he  looked  for  it  in  his 
happiness — his  great  happiness — a  happiness  which  was  possibly 
only  heightened  by  a  half-regretful  backward  thought  of  the  things 
that  had  been.  Not  only  for  himself  did  he  crave  this  kind  and 
sympathetic  feeling,  but  for  his  future  bride,  "  a  good,  Christian  lady, 
who  would  be  of  the  greatest  possible  help  to  him  in  that  labour 
which  was  the  joy  of  his  heart." 

I  think  the  vicar  seemed  relieved  when  it  was  all  over,  and, 
indeed,  so  emotionally  had  his  organist  spoken  that  one  might  not 
unnaturally  have  looked  for  tearful  effects  in  so  responsive  an 
audience. 

I  paid  but  little  attention  either  to  final  collect  or  benediction, 
and  my  feelings  of  weariness  had  long  since  disappeared.  Threading 
my  way  among  the  crowding  children,  I  gained  the  door,  and  was 
walking  thoughtfully  down  the  flagged  pathway  leading  from  the 
school  to  the  road,  when  I  espied  Miss  Leslie,  whom  I  had  not 
noticed  during  the  afternoon,  some  fifty  paces  ahead  of  me.  Miss 
Leslie  is  an  interesting  woman —plain,  sensible,  and  humorous. 

I  hurried  to  overtake  her.  Hearing  my  footsteps,  she  turned, 
and  greeted  me  with  — *'  Well  !  I  am  surprised  to  sec  you  teaching 
a  Sunday-school  class."  Miss  Leslie  knows  tliat  my  tastes  do  not 
he  in  the  direction  of  philanthropy,  and  1  have  before  now  Binarted 
under  tlie  caustic  la.sh  of  her  remarks.  But  I  disregarded  her 
innuendo,  and  asked  her  the  question  thai  1  had  been  asking  myself 
for  the  last  half-hour. 

"  What  can  be  the  attraction  ?  " 

"  What  can  be  the  attraction  ?    Why,  money ! " 

"  Money  ! "  I  exclaimed.    *'  A  poor  organist  like  Mr.  Wyatt ! " 

Miss  Leslie  looked  at  mc  wonderingly  a  moment 


Mr,   Wyaii. 


79 


"  Mr.  Wyatt  ?    1  don't  know  who  it  is  you're  talking  about     I 
thought  you  meant  Mr.  Passmore,  who  has  been  announcing  his 
coming  marriage  this  afternoon  to  his  many  worshippers." 
It  was  my  tarn  now  to  wonder. 

"  But  he's  Mr.  Wyatt,"  I  said  stubbornly,  "a  poor  music-master, 
an  organist,  who  has  saved  up  money  enough  to  buy  a  bicycle — he's 
poor,  very  poor,  lliough  "—meditatively—"  he  does  drive  rather  often 
in  hansom  cabs." 

I  was  determined  that  Peter  and  I  should  not  be  done  out  of  our 
little  romance. 

'•  How  can  Mr  Passmore  be  Mr.  Wyatt  ?  "  urged  the  sensible 
Miss  Leslie.  "  I  presume  you  arc  speaking  of  the  gentleman  who  — 
this  afternoon— announced  his  intention  of  re-marrying  ?  "  I  nodded 
my  head. 

"  Well ! "  said  Miss  Leslie,  "  that  is  Mr.  Fassmoret  a  widower — 
his  wife  died  eighteen  months  ago.  He  has  ;^7,oooa  year,  and  lives 
at  the  other  end  of  your  Terrace." 

"  But,"  I  protested,  "  if  he  had  ;^7,oqo  a  year  he  would  not  live  in 
our  Terrace." 

"  He  prefers  to  spend  his  money  on  charities,"  stud  Miss  Leslie 
severely. 

"On  his  Christian  and  philanthropic  labours,"  I  corrected. 

Miss  Leslie  smiled.  "  Yes,"  she  said,  "he  is  much  interested 
in  the  physical  culture  of  the  working  girl.  He  devotes  a  large 
portion  of  his  leisure  to  giving  her  musical  drill.  ANTiat  is  left  over 
be  spends  in  choosing  the  different  coloured  ribbons  used  in  the 
various  exercises." 

"  Ah,"  I  murmured,  "  we  knew  he  was  aesthetic.  We  were  right 
there." 

Miss  Leslie  looked  contemptuous.  But  my  cuKosity  was  not  yet 
satis&ed. 

"Whom  is  he  going  to  marry  ?"  I  asked. 

"  A  cousin  of  his  first  wife's.  She  is  ver>'  delicate  ;  so  was  his  wife. 
Id  feet  " — a  little  grimly—"  I  don't  think  anyone  robust  would  have 
a  chance." 

I  looked  rather  keenly  at  Miss  Leslie. 

'*  He  must  be  what  Peter  calls  a  frequent  widmmr^  I  said. 

"  The  future  Mrs.  Passmore  faints  when  you  look  at  her,  I'm  told." 

1  looked  again  at  Miss  Leslie,  but  gave  no  sign,  I  tmst,  of  my 
tlunigbts. 

"  It  has  been  a  grtat  blow  to  the  Misses  Mullins,"  she  went  on. 
"  They  were  perfectly  furious  at  first." 


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The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 


"Who  are  the  Misses  MuUins?"  I  asked. 

"  Don't  you  know  the  Misses  Mullins  ?  They  go  to  church  with 
him  every  Sunday.  One  of  them  acted  aheniately  with  iier  sister  as 
companion  to  his  wife  before  she  died.  After  her  death  he  found  it 
so  lonely  they  both  stayed  as  lus  companions." 

"Then  they  weren't  his  mother  and  sister  !  We  always  thought 
they  were  his  mother  and  sister.  What  an  out-of-the-way  man  he 
must  be'" 

With  all  our  im^^inings  about  Mr,  Wyalt,  Peter  and  I  had  never 
credited  him  with  originality. 

"  You,"  I  said ;  "  you  know  them — and  him  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  know  them.  I  was  there  one  evening  for  supper. 
That  is  one  of  Mr.  Passmore's  peculiarities  ;  he  never  will  dine  in 
the  evening.  He  says  a 'cold  repast 'suits  him  better,  and  makes 
him  feci  more  fit  for " 

"  His  Christian  and  other  labours,"  I  chimed  in. 

"  Quite  so,"  said  Miss  Leslie. 

"  But  do  tell  me  what  happened  when  you  went  there  ! " 

"  So  I  will,  if  you  will  let  me." 

"  I'm  sorry,"  I  said.    "  I'm  dying  to  hear." 

"Weill  after  supper  Mr.  Passraore  produced  innumerable 
coloured  ribbons,  and  for  a  long  lime  employed  us  in  tying  bows  of 
the  colours  of  his  choosing.  He  was  full  of  enthusiasm,  as  there 
was  to  be  a  musical  drill  exhibition  by  the  AVinsford  Rope  Factory 
girls  the  next  week.  At  last,  to  my  great  relief,  the  Misses  Mullins 
created  a  diversion  by  insisting  on  my  going  upstairs  to  see  a  piece 
of  Roman  embroidery  they  had  just  finished.  I  went  willingly, 
though  I  didn't  care  twopence  for  the  embroidery,  but  anything  was 
belter  than  those  eternal  ribbons.  But  instead  of  bringing  out  the 
embroidery,  no  sooner  had  they  closed  the  door  than  they  Ihiew 
themselves  upon  me  with — 'Oh,  Miss  Leslie,  how  shall  we  save 
dear  Jack  ?'  I  looked  at  them,  and  then  an  awful  suspicion  crossed 
my  mind.  The  meaning  of  the  drill  and  the  bows  and  the  Christian 
labour  flashed  upon  me.  '  What?'  I  said,  in  a  frightened  whisper, 
'  He*s  mad  ? '  '  Mad  ?  Of  course  he's  mad.  Isn't  it  madness  to 
think  of  marrying  a  woman  like  that— so  delicate  that  she  has  to 
winter  abroad— and  a  weak  heart— wby,  she  faints  if  you  look  at  her.' 

"The  Misses  Mullins'  distress  was  evidently  produced  by  quite  a 
different  sort  of  oudness  to  what  I  had  thought  They  described 
ererythiog  to  roe — ^how  Mr.  Passmore  had  met  this  cousin  of  his 
wife's,  and  how  they  liad  become  engaged,  and  the  cruel  moment 
when  he  had  broken  the  news  to  them.    And  then  they  wailed,  and 


said  that  they  must  save  dear  Jack,  and  wanted  to  know  if  I  didn't 
think  it  would  be  a  good  plan  for  them  to  ask  their  vkar  to  speak  to 
dear  Jack,  and  point  out  to  him  how  important  it  was  for  his  bapfH- 
ness  that  he  should  marry  some  one  who  could  help  him  in  his 
various  charitable  schemes.  1  felt  doubtful,  but,  as  they  had  set  their 
hearts  on  it,  I  suppose  they  did  speak  to  the  vicar,  and  that  is  the 
reason  *  dear  Jack '  referred  to  the  *  good  Christian  lady  *  who  is  to 
be  such  a  help  to  him." 

"Well,  it  was  no  use?" 

**  No  use  at  all,  as  you  heard  to-day.  The  good  Christian  lady 
has  already  persuaded  him  to  spend  a  little  more  money  on  other 
things  than  philanthropy.  He  is  leaving  his  house,  and  taking  that 
large  one  with  the  pretty  gardens  near  the  Park  gates.  We  shall 
next  hear  of  a  carnage  and  pair,  I  expect." 

Wc  had  been  loitering  along  to  spin  out  the  distance  we  had  to 
walk  together  before  our  ways  separated.  Now  we  had  come  to  a 
stand-stitl,  and,  as  it  was  rather  late,  and  I  knew  Peter  would  be 
waiting  for  me  to  give  him  his  lea,  I  said  good-bye  to  Miss  Leslie 
and  hurried  home. 

I  found  Peter  sitting  in  the  dusk,  with  only  the  firelight  for  com- 
pany,    I  burst  in  upon  him. 

"  Oh,  Peter  1  such  news  I "  I  said,  as  I  flung  off  my  furs  and 
gloves.  •'  But  ril  give  you  your  tea  first,  as  il*s  waiting.  .  .  .  Such 
news  I  Mr.  Wyatt  is  not  poor,  nor  a  music-master,  nor  Mr.  Wyatt 
atalL" 

"AVhat  is  he  then  ?  "  asked  Peter. 

••  He's  Mr,  Passmore,  and  a  merchant,  and  rich,  and  he's  going 
to  be  married  to  'a  good  Christian  lady  who  will  be  of  great  help  to 
him  in  his  philanthropic  labours.* " 

I  broke  off",  laughing.  **I  have  brought  the  trick  of  speech 
making  from  the  Sunday  SchooL" 

"  But  how  do  you  know  all  this  ? "  Peter  asked,  for  he  is  some 
times  a  little  sceptical  of  stories  and  imaginings  in  which  he  has  act 
collaborated. 

"  He  told  me  so  himself— at  least,  not  that.  But.  you  know, 
Peter,  he  does  teach  in  a  Sunday  School,  although  he  isn't  an 
org^st.  He  taught  in  the  Sunday  School  this  aAernoon,  and  when 
it  was  nearly  all  over,  and  there  ought  to  have  been  a  collect,  he  made 
a  speech  and  announced  his  engagement.  His  speech  was  quite  as 
good  as  a  collect.  I  mean,  it  made  you  feel  as  ecclesiastical.  Do 
you  know  that  to  hear  Mr.  Wyatt  speak  is  a  great  incentive  to  ** 
I  hesitated,  t  was  going  to  say  eloquence,  but  I  thought  of  xo^viU 
vou  ccxcu    NO.  2047.  Q 


Tf^  Genthtnan  s  Alagazine. 

possible    correction — "  volubility  ;  even    Miss  Leslie, 
ing  to  me  afterwards,  spoke  Hke  a  book." 
lid  Miss  Leslie  tell  you  all  about  it  ?  " 
much  as  she  knew.     And  she  knows  a  good  deal.     She 
i  Mr.  Wyatt's— I  mean,  of  Mr.  Passniore's — atid  of  ihe 
lins." 

ire  the  Misses  Mullins  ?  " 

11  telt  you  all  about  it  properly,"  I  said,  and  so,  while 

s,  muffins,  I  described  my  afternoon,  and  told  my  news, 

had  finished  we  both  sat  silent  for  a  while. 

it  disappointing,  isn't  it,  Peter  ?     I  suppose  Mr.  Fenwick 

t  when  he  says  that  musicians  never  brush  their  hair — 

do  it.     The  close- cropped,  sleek-haired  Mr.  Wyatt^ — 

I  thought— isn't  Mr.  Wyatt  at  all,  but  Mr.  Passmore, 


&u  know/'  I  went  on,  more  cheerfully — it  is  curious  how 
Imen  always  become  over  episodes  of  this  kind  in  the  lives 
I"  do  you  know,  I  think  Miss  Leslie  had  felt  a  slight 
|ir  the  position  of  helpmeet  to  Mr.  Wyatt?  She  is  so 
religious,  she  '  district-visits  '  and  all  that  kind  of  thing. 

jine  why  Mr,  Wyatt  didn't  marry  her  instead  of  the  other 


I 


ft 


**  T  T  ISTORIES  make  men  wise," '  says  Bacon;  but  does  not 
XT.  Ihis  terse  proposition  require  qualification  ?  Histories  of 
what?  Not  of  the  names  of  kings  and  of  their  mistresses,  but  the  true 
story  of  peoples,  of  their  customs,  and  above  all  of  their  laws.  The 
cnstonuuy  Uw  of  any  insulated  nation  is  the  true  fountain  of  its 
history,  its  wars  and  alliances  but  part  of  the  stream.  If,  then,  the 
right  reading  of  true  history  makes  men  wise,  how  essential  is  it  that 
the  sources  of  the  customary  law  of  the  district  to  which  it  applies 
should  be  accurately  ascertained  and  investigated  1 

The  district  under  present  consideration  is  that  which  lies  on 
both  versanis  of  the  Occidental  Pyrenees,  including  the  country  of 
the  peoples  of  Bigorre,  Bdam.  Gascony,  and  Basque-land.  The 
popular  idea,  though  propped  up  by  Laferriere,*  that  the  Basques  are 
a  nation  apart,  in  so  far  as  regards  tiieir  liaving  separate  institutions 
and  customs,  is  erroneous.  This  idea  may  well  lie  attributed  to  our 
ignorance  of  the  origin  of  the  Basques,  to  their  having  a  separate 
language  and  personality,  and  to  the  passionate  attachment  shown 
by  them  of  late,  in  two  Carlist  insurrections,  to  the  Fueros'  of  the 
provinces  in  which  they  dwell.  But  the  Basques  as  a  nation  have  no 
Fuero  or  For  peculiar  to  themselves,  not  even  a  general  one,  as  have 
some  of  their  provinces,  like  Navarre,  which  latter  is,  however,  not 
written  in  Basque,  but  in  Spanish  patois.  They  jkkscss  no  customary 
Uw  profoundly  differing  from  that  of  neighbouring  populations  of 
Keltic  origin,  which  all,  Ba:>quc,  Bdamais  and  Gascon  alike,  liave 
in  common   with  Gauls  or  Kelts.     This  view  of  Jullen  Vinson  and 

'  fc-M«y  L.  ot  Studici.  Howdiffcrcnt  from  the  cheap  inodcin  cyrticisio,  *'The 
only  faiUDcy  worth  writing  is  (he  hisliny  ihjU  cannot  t#e  writlco"  [NitteiefntM 
Cf»\tMry,  1900,  p.  89J). 

'  Hittatre  du  Drott  Fntm^Mt, 

'  Tb«  dirtioci  incantng?  of  the  word  "  Fuem"  are  bwi  Men  io  the  anida 
•  Fucxak  "  In  CJinmUr^i  Em^ilsfaiiia. 

0% 


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The  Gentleman  s  Magazine, 


of  Balasque'  is  borne  out  by  the  internal  evidence  of  the  Fors 
and  Fueros  themselves,  or  which  we  shall  have  occasion  to  say  more 
hereafter. 

The  prime  source  of  ancient  law  in  the  Western  Pyrenean 
district  being  Keltic  or  Germanic,  it  remains  to  be  seen  how  in 
process  of  time  it  got  so  much  affected  as  it  did  by  other  systems  of 
legislation.  What  more  natural  than  that  the  successive  occupations 
of  the  North  of  Spain  by  the  Romans,  the  Goths,  and  the  Moors, 
left  indelible  footprints  on  the  plastic  customs  of  the  Kelts,  the  first 
invaders  of  all,  or  that  in  South-west  France  Roman  institutions 
in  especial,  and  certain  Norman  ones  likewise,  forced  themselves 
upon  the  overridden  people  of  the  duchies  of  Aquitainc  and 
Guyenne?  The  situation  of  the  district,  cspcx:ially  of  many  of  its 
valleys  a  clteval  on  the  mountains,  is  physically  just  such  as  would 
probably  be  occupied  by  the  "remnant  that  remained"  of  each  of 
these  successively  conquered  races.  Further  along  the  Pyrenean 
chain  they  could  not  go.  What  fitter  spot,  then,  could  be  found  for 
making  an  investigation  into  certain  simple  racial  forms,  in  as  nearly 
a  rudimentary  state  as  can  be  found  ?  This,  bcing]an  enquiry  to  be 
pursued  upon  the  historical  method  into  an  archaic  state  of  society 
relatively  little  operated  upon  by  sudden  or  outside  changes,  is  of 
the  kind  recommended  "  by  Sir  Henry  Maine. 

To  begin  with  the  Spanish  side.  The  first  thing  that  strikes  the 
student  is  the  extreme  difficulty  of  dealing  with_^the^materials,  from 
which  alone  a  correct  estimate  of  the  contents  of  the  Fueros  and  of 
the  relative  independence  assured  by  them  can  be  formed.  There  was 
little  literature  in  English  having  any  bearing  upon  the  Fueros 
before  Major  Hume  came  upon  the  stage.  In  French  the  enquirer 
can  find  nothing  worth  mentioning,  and  not  even  a  bibliography  of 
Spanish  books  upon  the  ancient  law  of  that  country,  in  "  La  Grande 
Encyclopedic,"  iub  vofe  Espagnc.  So  little,  indeed,  do  the  French 
seem  to  know  about  Spain,  that  a  learned  writer  like  I-emoinne  falls 
into  the  enor  '  of  stating  that  the  Basque  provinces  are  practically 
bdependent,  and  have  no  bishops  or  dioceses.  "Zw  cur^s"  he 
continues,    **  svnt   maUns   chtz   enx,  ft  ne  soudcnt  Hen  du  Saint 


•  J.  Vinson,  Etudes  de  LiHguisfiftu,  p.  195.  BAlakjue,  StttJei  sur  la  VUU 
d*  Baymntt  vol.  ii.  p.  3a^. 

•  An^itnt  Law,  p.  89  and  p.  119.  Perhaps,  howerer,  in  preference  to  the 
use  ofdocunicnls  (U  tfthey  weie  themselves  authi<nlict  aod  Ibcicfrom  rlctlucint; 
coocltuiont,  a  better  nictho^l  is  the  eotnparabvc  method,  i.e.  using  rlociUDctiit 
only  OS  ft  meaiiK  of  getting  at  bets  to  be  interpreted  by  cotnpui&oa  with  others, 

•  y^urnat  <Ui  DH^t,  June  16,  1874. 


Sources  of  Wesi-Pyrenean  Law. 


Pin"  the  truth  being  that  there  arc  two  Basque  diocescsi  with 
priests  absolutely  Ultramontane. 

Thus,  in  order  to  understand  something  about  the  Fueros,  we 
have  to  go  almost  entirely  to  Spanish  sources,  which  arc  difficult  to 
use,  as  modem  discoveries  have  made  of  no  value  much  of  the  older 
literature'  upon  the  subject.  There  being  as  yet  no  classification  of 
modern  Spanish  historical  work,  and  the  Fueros  pronng  too  nume- 
rous and  too  lengthy  to  be  carefully  read  in  their  entirety,  any  attempt 
to  generalise  upon  the  comparative  value,  and  to  dogmatise  upon  the 
spirit  even  of  each  Fuero  General,  must  be  hazarded  with  diffidence. 
Catalonia,  with  Barcelona  as  its  chief  centre  of  population,  on  the 
extreme  cast,  opposite  to  Rousillon  and  Foix,  lies  beyond  the  scope 
of  our  inquiry.  All,  then,  that  need  be  said  of  its  Constitutions  is 
that  they  rendered  it  the  most  democratic  of  Spanish  States.*  We 
then  come  to  Aragon,  which  was  also  democratic,  with  Saragossa  and 
Huesca  as  towns,  and  to  Aragon  we  shall  hereafter  have  a  little 
more  to  say.  Next  we  pass  on  to  Navarre,  and  lastly  to  Guipuzcoa, 
with  Sl  Sebastian  for  its  chief  town,  and  then  to  Biscaye  by  its  side,  of 
which  Bilbao  is  the  capital,  both  on  the  sea  shore.  Inland  lies 
Alava,  better  known  from  V7toria,  one  of  its  most  important 
places,  immediately  south  of  the  two  last- mentioned  Basque  pro- 
vinces. As  far  as  can  be  generalised  with  any  fair  amount  of 
accuracy,  the  most  important  Spanish  laws  of  North-wcslem  Spain 
are  the  "  Fuero  Real "  (1^55)  and  the  "  Sieic  Partidas,"  an  adapta< 
tion  of  the  "Forum  Judicum/'  or  "Fuero  Juzgo,"  to  a  more 
I  advanced  state  of  society  (1256  or  1238),  both  which  saw  the  light 
in  the  time  of  Alphonso  the  Wise.  Then  came  the  "  Ordenamiento  '* 
of  the  Cortes  of  Alcala,  the  work  of  Alphonso  XI.  (1348),  which 
latter  attempted  to  subject  local  Fueros  to  Royal  Edicts.  Next  in 
value  arc  perhaps  the  Royal  *'  Ordonnanccs  "  of  Castile,  that  we 
owe  to  Ferdinand  the  Catholic  in  1488,  and  the  eighty-three  laws  of 
Toro  promulgated  in  1505.  Afterwards  come  the  "Nueva  Recopi- 
lacion  "(1567)  and  the  "Novissima  Recopilacion  "  (1805).  These 
various  important  enactments  have  to  be  read  side  by  side  with  the 
customary  or  local  law  (*'  Dcrccho  foral ")  of  each  particular  district, 
the  "  Derecho  comun  "  being  the  only  branch  even  now  which  can 
be  considered  to  be  contained  within  the  four  corners  of  a  code,  if 

*  E.g.  TTie  Celltcdcn  de  Doiuminia  tditoj  para  la  Hiit»ria  dt  RtpaHa^  in 
iboot  too  volumrs,  pnhlishrri  by  ihe  Spat^Uh  Royal  AcAtlemy  of  History. 

•  Botet  Antetiuen  »ay<,  p.  yn,i  "  Majore  autem  pwle  tunliconim  utitnuf, 
Gotiiicu  TCTO  Icgibus  paadssimts  ulimur,  legilius  quldem  Rotnuui  plurfbus 
KiMD."    Us  Utagn  di  B^ahnm  (to6S)  is  th«  oldest  exiiting  cuuam. 


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The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 


we  except  the  penal  law,  commercial  law,  and  civil  procedure,  into 
which,  of  course,  except  perhaps  the  first,  local  custom  does  not 
much  enter. 

Among  the  first  laws  in  point  of  date  that  we  know  of  upon 
the  Western  Spanish  versant,  which  have  more  particularly  influenced 
later  legislation,  are  the  "  Fuero  de  Albedrio  "  (Arbitral)  and  that  of 
Sobrarve,  i.t.  the  mountainous  part  of  Aragon,  and  the  "Forum 
Judicum  "or  "Fuero  Juzgo,"  a  Visigolhic  code  '  that  belonged  more 
to  Castile  and  Aragon  than  to  Navarre,  with  which  latter  country  we 
are  here  more  particularly  concerned.  Each  province  had  as  a 
rule  a  Fuero  General,  and  each  town  or  group  of  villages  in  it  a 
particular  Fuero.  Whenever  a  town  was  founded  it  was  given  a 
Fuero  in  Spain,  or  in  Bdarn  or  Bigorre  a  For  ;  as,  for  example,  was 
done  in  the  case  of  Oloroo.  This  was  called  a  "  Carta  de  Poblacion."  * 
It  set  out  the  privileges  granted  by  the  Sovereign  lo  such  persons  as 
would  come  and  live  in  this  new  centre  of  habitation.  Any  case  not 
provided  for  in  Navarre,  either  by  the  Fuero  General  or  by  the 
particular  Fuero  of  the  town,  as,  for  example,  by  thai  of  Jaca  (1090), 
was  decided  according  to  Roman  law,  but  according  to  the  Fuero  of 
Castile  all  through  Alava.  This  was  called  lex  supktoria^  and  must 
by  no  means  be  confounded  with  the  Obstrvanctas  and  AmejoramUn- 
tos  which  supplemented  the  Fuero  General.  In  Navarre  the  date 
of  the  Fuero  General  is  said  to  be  1300,  but  it  was  not  printed  until 
1686.  Then  came  the  Atntjoramiento  of  D.  Ph^lipe  de  Ebreus  in 
1330?  ^nd  that  of  Don  Carlos  el  Noble  in  1418.  The  first  printed 
edition  of  the  Fuero  and  Obsermndas  of  Aragon  is  that  of  1496,' 
but  their  actual  date  is,  of  course,  much  earlier.  There  was  also  a 
famous  Compilacion  in  1549.  In  the  Spanish  Basque  provinces 
other  than  Alava  there  was  a  Fuero  General,  and,  as  we  have  seen, 
its  place  was  taken  in  Alava  by  the  Fuero  of  Castile.  There  were, 
however,  many  municipal  Fueros  granted  in  that  province  between 
iiaS  and  1337.  In  Biscaye  we  find  several  editions  of  a  Fuero 
General  (i343t  MS^p  and  1527)  besides  sundry  municipal  Fueros; 
and  the  same  was  the  case  in  Guipuzcoa,  where  the  date  of  the 
Fuero  General  seems  to  be  as  late  as  the  year  1690.  It  is  necessary 
to  mention  these  details,  as  the  condition  of  the   inhabitants   in 


>  II.  E.  Wttts,  Spain,  p.  145. 

'  Erptessions  likt  ihe  following  ire  ftrand  in  inch  documeats  t— •'  Pro  unon 
quod  ibi  fioqumiset  populetis.  Propter  amorem  quod  vos  populetU  In  prcdieto 
culTO  «1  piano."    Tbe  object  wu  '*  Uevirgin&re  iciram." 

■  The  bctt  aecannt  of  the  Fueros  of  Aragon  it  by  RtEiel  d«  llrcu  y 
Smenjtca^  in  th«  Hivixtm  df  Arthh/ttt  April  uid  Mfty  1900. 


Sources  of  IVest-PyreneaH  Law. 

Guipiucoa  and  Biscaye  was  and  is  much  more  democratic  than 
in  Alava  and  Navarre.  The  reason  seems  not  (ar  to  seek.  An  older 
civilisation  bad  been  constantly  forced  backwards  by  fresh  immigra- 
tion, and  could  get  no  further  than  Guipuzcoa  and  Biscaye.  Alava 
was  inland  and  a  more  desirable  resting-place,  as  also  was  Navarre. 
Therefore  it  is  hardly  to  be  wondered  at  that  the  Fueros  of  the 
fonner  got  little  from  the  Roman  law,  even  through  the  oiedium 
of  the  Visigoths,  while  those  of  Alava  and  Navarre,  on  the  other 
hand,  take  much  irom  that  source. 

I'he  root  of  the  Fucro  General  of  Navarre  is  supposed  to  be  the 
Fuero  of  Sobrarbe  and  some  other  municipal  Fueros  of  the  district, 
said  by  Moret  to  have  been  granted  by  Theobald  I.  No  copy  exists 
of  the  Fuero  of  Sobrarbe,  but  Alphonso,  King  of  Aragon  and  Navarre, 
is  allied  to  have  given  it  when  he  conquered  Tudela  from  the 
Moors  in  1117.  The  Fuero  General  of  Navarre  contains  a  strong 
admixture  of  Visigothic  customs,  as  well  as  the  mark  of  mediscval 
feudalism.'  Its  date  is  probably  about  1155.  The  first  edition 
is  that  of  t686,  which  leaves  out  such  parts  as  the  Cortes,  held  on 
January  7  in  the  preceding  year,  considered  to  be  evil-sounding  or 
indecent  It  is  in  Spanish,  though  not  the  Spanish  of  Castile,  and 
strikes  the  reader  as  remarkable  in  form,  from  being  rather  a  narrative 
than  a  list  of  commands.  Its  source  is  plainly  Visigothic,  acting  upon 
existing  custom  and  tinged  with  feudalism.  It  shows  the  hand  of  the 
priest,  and  recalls  the  Basque  proverb,  "  Kach  district  has  its  own  law, 
and  each  family  ils  proper  custom."  In  this  Fuero  General,  which  is 
perhaps  the  most  important  body  of  laws  belonging  to  the  Western 
Pyrenean  section  of  the  Spanish  versant  now  extant,  several  matters  of 
principle  at  once  arrest  attention.  Its  style  is  almost  that  of  a  good- 
humoured  exhortation,  divided,  after  the  Roman  method,  into  books, 
titles  and  chapters.  Roman  influence,  to  put  it  most  succinctly,  is 
noticeable  in  its  treatment  of  women  as  wives  or  concubines,  in 
the  institution  oifiadons,  i.e.  fideiJussortSy  and  recognition  of  the 
relationship  of  agnates.  The  husband  becomes  the  master  of  his 
wife's  fortune,  and  she  during  marriage  is  more  or  less  under  his 
fot4s/as.  Nevertheless  Germanic  influences  are  seen  in  the  gifts 
given  by  husband  to  wife,  in  the  warranty  of  her  virginit>-,  in  the 
pftxtnership  in  family  property  ordained  by  the  Fuero,  as  well  as  in  the 
OEtntordinary  liberality  of  its  arrangements  as  to  a  woman's  power  to 
contract,  make  a  will,  and  enjoy  a  life  interest  in  her  husband's  estate 
tftcr  his  death.     The  universal  custom  of  providing  sureties  also  has 


^  Ihidfviui  du  D*uHt  De  Conditiooe  MuUemin  (188S),  p.  looi 


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The  Gentleman's  Magazine, 


the  same  origin,  as  well  as  tlie  traces  of  Wehrgtld^  Ordalies,  and  right 
of  private  vengeance  that  pervades  its  criminal  law.  The  eifect  of 
feudalism  is  noticeable  in  the  marked  dtiTcrcncc  made  between 
nobles  and  roturitrs  {ruptuarii)^  and  the  impossibility  for  a  noble 
lady  to  marry  out  of  her  class.  At  the  same  time  the  King  of 
Navarre,  owing  to  the  operation  of  the  Fucro  General,  was  rendered 
a  constitutional  monarch,  perhaps  the  first  in  Europe,  as  can  readily 
be  understood  if  we  read  carefully  the  five  oaths  taken  by  each  king, 
as  given  by  I^rere,^  It  is  to  be  remarked  that  they  do  not  appear 
in  Uie  printed  edition  of  this  Fuero,  but  only  in  certain  early  MSS. 
The  same  remark  applies  to  the  various  paragraphs  to  be  found  in 
the  Appendix  (p.  204)  to  *'  La  Contrageregonza,"  or  "  Refutacion 
jocosen'a  del  Ensayo  Histdrico-critico  sobre  la  legislacion  de  Navarre. 
Compuesto  por  D.  Josd  Maria  Zuasnavar.  En  Panzucola,  1835,"  ao 
anonymous  book,  perhaps  by  Miranda,  and  probably  really  published 
at  Pampeluna. 

On  the  French  versant  we  have  chiefly  to  do  with  the  Fors  of 
Bigorre,  B»!arn,  Soule,  Labourt,  Bayonne,  and  Bas  Navarre,  for  the 
Gascon  Customs  of  St.  Sever,  Dax,  Bordeaux,  and  such  like  scarcely 
come  within  our  horiron.  Speaking  geographically,  Rousillon,  with 
Perpignan  for  capital,  joining  Foix  and  Andorre,  the  former  of  which 
itself  touches  Couzerans  next  the  mountains,  and  Comminges  more 
inland,  form  (he  eastern  lialf  of  the  French  Pyrenean  region.  Then 
come  Lcs  Quatre  Vall&s,  witli  Nelrauzan  lo  the  north  and  Aslarat 
or  Esterac  and  Armagnac  each  still  further  north,  bounded  on  the  west 
by  Bigorre ;  afterwards  Bi^*am,  with  Chalosse  to  the  immediate  north, 
and  then  Soule.  Next  comes  Navarre,  and  lastly  Labourt  with  its 
chief  town  Bayonne,  having  Gascony  to  the  north.  The  Fors  of 
Bigorre  and  its  immediate  neighbourhood  are  numerous,  and  include 
that  of  Luz  and  Barege,  of  which  we  have  Npgucs*  excellent  com* 
mentary,^  Arrcns,  Azun,  Bagneres,  Guizerix,  Ibos,  Lannemezan, 
Lourdes,  Maubourguct,  Monifaucon,  and  Tarbes,  with  those  of 
Les  Quatre  Valli^cs  as  perhaps  the  most  important.  Lagrez^  in 
his  •'  Droit  dans  les  Pyr^n^es,"  not  only  gives  a  fair  account  of  most 
of  these,  but  even  the  text  in  many  cases.  Of  them,  as  a  whole,  it 
may  be  safely  said  that  they  display  unusual  liberality,  and  testify  lo 
the  mildness  of  the  form  feudalism  look  in  Bigone.  This  is  bome 
out  even  by  a  cartulary  of  the  Abbey  of  St.  Savin,  which  has  been 

*  Ainhtrr«  FraMftUse,  vol.  U.  p.  23, 

*  La  CoOiume  de  Dar^eavM:  les  U«sg«s  du  I^yt  du  Lavedin,  de  U  nlle  Ae 
Loucde,  de  \%  BuroAnit  dca  Angles,  Mjmiaiut  de  Bcue  ct  ftuttes  endrolti. 
Toolmue,  [76a 


Sourus  of  West'Pyretuan  Lam. 


89 


preserved  in  ihe  archives  of  Tarbes.  The  rights  of  women  are 
particularly  cared  for,  and  that  of  the  eldest  child,  male  or  fctoalc, 
to  succeed  to  family  property  often  recognised  and  enforced,  as, 
to  give  but  one  instance,  in  the  custom  of  Barege.*  Except  in 
Roudllon,  which  used  to  go  with  the  countship  of  Barcelona  and 
kingdom  of  Aiagon,  the  force  of  the  Fuero  Juzgo  ncvtx  made  itself 
felt  on  the  French  side  of  the  Pyrenees,  In  it  arc  no  traces  of 
feudalism.  It  was  merely  a  Germanic  custom,  modified  by  the 
ecclesi:\siical  influence  of  the  Councils  of  Toledo.  One  great 
principle  which  seems  to  run  through  the  civil  law  of  the  French 
Pyrenees  is  reconciliation  of  the  rights  of  the  individual,  which  were 
then  in  an  inchoate  state,  with  those  of  the  family,  and  the  earlier 
Uw  of  Rome  with  the  absolutely  feudal  institution  of  fiefs.  In  pro- 
cedure, again,  feudalism  and  indi^'idual  liberty  were  always  pulling 
different  ways,  the  county  courts  lending  to  decentralisation,  while 
the  supreme  court  ever  attempted  to  correct  this  defect 

Before  considering  the  Old  Fors  of  B^am,  which  are  the  most 
important  on  the  French  side,  as  the  course  legislation  took  can  be 
so  well  traced  in  them  by  comparison  with  the  New  For  of  1552,  it 
maybe  well  to  mention  the  Custom  of  Bordeaux,  a  printed  edition  of 
which  exists,  dated  1617.'  This  For  applied  also  to  the  Sdni5» 
cbauss^e  de  Cuyetmc  and  to  the  Pais  de  Bourdelois.  Although 
this  custom  in  fifteen  rubrics  upholds  feudal  rights,  according  to  it 
fiefd  can  be  divided  among  children  without  the  leave  of  the  lord^  as 
well  as  the  properly  of  an  emphyieote.  In  it  "  le  mort  saisit  U  vi/** 
while  the  eldest  son  is  called  chef  de  maison^  and  his  main  duty  seems 
to  be  to  preserie  the  home.  But  a  de[>endant,  if  he  misbehaves  with 
any  woman  belonging  to  his  lord,  loses  his  head  sans  merci ;  is  hung  if 
he  steals  over  50  francs'  worth  of  goods  belonging  to  his  lord,  and  is 
whipped  twice  when  the  property  is  of  less  value.  Into  the  Custom 
>  of  Saintonge,  with  its  twenty  rubrics  including  an  interesting  one  upon 
partnership,  it  is  hardly  necessary  here  to  go.  Its  date  is  1520,  and 
chief  town  St.  Jean  d'Angcli.  There  is  of  it  a  printed  edition,  also  by 
Millanges,  dated  1603.  He  published  besides  (in  1617)  "  lyCsCous- 
tumes  G^nt^rales  ct  Pariiculicres  de  la  Ville  et  Prevost^  d'Aci 
(Due).''  This  custom  is  in  eighteen  rubrics,  and  dates  from  I5i4< 
Millanges  had  previously  brought  out,  in  1603,  the  General  and 
Jx}cal  Custom  of  the  Town  Prevostd  and  Sitge  of  St.  Sever.    This  is 

*  \\  %  qaite  a  mislftke  to  suppose  that  urict  jnimogenilute  was  coofined  to 
Buqw-luid.  See,  Tor  enmple,  For  d^Amn,  Ail.  86,  givea  in  lagi^te,  Droit 
4mm  Ut  Fyriniti^  p.  450- 

*  Pu  SimoQ  Miltanccs,  Impimcot  Ordinaire  da  Roy,  Bordeaux. 


90 


The  Genllemans  Magazine. 


in  twenty-nine  rubrics,  and  was  approved  in  1514  by  the  Parliament  of 
Bordeaux.  Among  them  is  an  interesting  rubric  stating  that  serfs 
{questaux)  cannot  contract  or  make  a  will,  and  that  the  lord  may 
lake  away  their  goods  whenever  be  likes.'  There  in  also  a  clear 
(local)  article  upon  voisinsy  which  shows  that  at  St.  Sever  a  stmnge 
woman  marrying  a  vohin  became,  until  she  remarried,  a  voisine. 
But  neither  a  strange  man  who  married  a  voisine^  nor  any  of  their 
children  became  fftfiVi'w.  There  was  also  published  in  eighteen  rubrics 
by  Millanges  in  1603,  "Les  Cousturaes  Centrales  gard^  et  ob- 
serv^es  au  pats  et  Baillage  de  la  Bourt  (L^bourt)  et  ressort  d'iceluy." 
These,  too,  were  authorised  in  15 14.  We  now  come  to  the  "Coft- 
tumes  G^ndrales  du  Pays  et  Vicomti  de  Soule,"  approved  by  the 
Parliament  of  Bordeaux  in  1520,  which  begin  thus  :  "  By  a  custom, 
which  has  been  kept  and  observed  from  all  time,  all  the  natives  and 
inhabitants  of  Soule  are  i7e&  and  of  free  condition  without  mark  of 
slavery.  No  war  levy  has  nor  can  be  made  upon  the  inhabitants,  nor 
any  right  be  demanded  on  the  ground  of  the  status  or  (pretended) 
servile  condition  of  the  said  inhabitants  or  any  of  them."  The  chaj»e 
was  free  In  Soule,  and  there  the  elder  child,  whether  male  or  female, 
inherited  in  certain  families.  The  thirty-seven  rubrics  of  this  custom 
are  perhaps  the  most  liberal  of  all  those  in  the  Pyrenean  district,  and 
Bela's  manuscript  commentary  throws  light  upon  many  peculiarities 
and  clears  up  sundry  difficulties  In  them,  as  has  not  been  done  for 
the  other  Basque  customs,  which,  it  should  be  observed,  are  none  of 
thera  in  the  Basque  language,  and  seem  to  have  been  more  or  lei*s 
adapted  to  the  model  of  the  New  For  of  B&im.  In  the  Custom  of 
Soule  the  desire  to  uphold  the  family  ts  particularly  conspicuous,  as 
well  as  the  Germanic  mther  than  Gallic  or  Roman  position  taken 
by  the  women.  Under  the  Roman  system,  from  having  been  utterly 
in  her  husband's  power,  as  she  was  among  the  Gauls  likewise,  she 
became  in  later  days  absolutely  unfettered,  and  frequently  in  con- 
sequence quite  undomestic.  But  the  mumiium  or  mainbour  of  the 
Germans,  which  was  a  sort  of  parental  or  family  tutelage,  seems  to 
have  hit  the  raiddit:  course,  and  safeguarded  the  woman's  condition 
in  all  three  Basque  customs.  This  position  of  women  stands  out 
particularly  clear  in  the  old  Custom  of  Bayonne  (13th  centui;),  os 
compared  with  the  more  modem  one  of  1514  in  twenty  rubrics,  aJso 


*  Cumpanft  in  his  EtwU  f/itt.  it  Jur.  sur  U  Cettmat  tt  U  Strea^t  (Bordeaux, 
18S3)  well  ibowK  froai  tlic  oUCuMoai  uf  Bordaux  (t4th  ccotury)  what  their 
pontioti  th«n  wai, 

*  Tb*  oontruy  wu  the  cna  b  llie  Fvr  0/  Jifavam  IUf»-fyrft,  RoK  isdr., 
An.3. 


Sources  of  West-Pyrenean  Law. 


9J 


ublJshed  by  Miltanges,  and  shows  the  absence  of  the  strict  Roman 

7rt  potestas  even  in  the  case  of  children. 

"  Los  Fors  et  Coshimas  deu  Royaume  dc  Navarre  Dega-Ports  " 

is  usually  found  tn  the  duodecimo  edition  of  1732,  printed  at  Fau 

by  Jerome  Dupoux.     It  was  authorised  in  its  present  form  by  the 

Parliament  of  Navane  sitting  at  Pau  in  the  year  163T.    This  custom 

is  in  substance,  of  course,  much  older,  and  received  letters  patent  from 

Louis  XIIL  in  161 1.     Its  rubric  concerning  the  status  of  individuals  is 

^conceived  in  an  especially  liberal  spirit,  granting  ipso  facto  ihe  rights  of 

^Woisin  even  to  the  stranger  who  marries  the  heiress  of  a  voisin.     It  also 

gives  a  special  power  to  districts  to  meet  and  arrange  their  common 

,lflairs.      Testamentary   privileges    likewise  are   liberally   accorded 

''  especially  in  the  case  of  acquired  as  opposed  to  ancestral  property ; 

but  no  one  can  contract  without  the  leave  of  his  curator  until  be 

attains  the  age  of  twenty-five  years. 

The  old  Fors  of  B^arn  are  the  following :  "  La  Charte  d'Oloron," 
1080;  "Le  For  de  Morlaas,"  not,  renewed  in  laao;  "Le  For 
d'Owaa,"  "  Le  For  d'Aspe,"  "  Le  For  de  Baretous,"  all  three  in  1 2a  i ; 
"  Le  For  Gdn^ral  de  Biarn,"  the  latter  in  part  probably  about  1000, 
and  in  part  renewed  in  1288.  The  only  edition  of  these  is  that  of 
Mazure  and  Hatoulet  {1840),  taken  from  the  one  manuscript  then  at 
the  Pau  archives.  As  there  are  now  known  to  exist  four  manuscripts, 
I  text  needs  collation.  In  these  Fors  the /afrta pafes/as  was  feeble, 
nd  a  girl  at  seven  could  be  betrothed  witli  the  consent  of  her  guardians, 
who  were  (if  alive)  her  father  and  mother.  At  twelve  she  became  of 
ge,and  then  thc/tf/«/*w  ceased.  Here  we  have  a  state  of  things  vastly 
:  the  Roman  system,  while  the  conditions  upon  which  a  child 
could  be  disinherited  and  the  authority  of  the  husband  over  the  wife 
from  a  Roman  source.    The  Lex  Julia  de  Fundo  Dotali  gives 

the  husband  power,  with  the  wife's  consent,  to  sell  biens  dotaux 
This  law  passed  through  the  Theodosian  Code  into  that  of  B(*am, 
^•nd  its  force  is  perceived  even  in  the  New  For  of  1552,  but  not  the 
ohibition  contained  in  the  same  law,  viz.  not  to  mortgage  hiens 
dolaux  even  witli  consent.  Probably  the  distinction  between 
alienating  and  mortgaging  was  too  subtle  for  the  jurisconsults  of  the 
Middle  Ages  to  grasp.  The  Gallic  custom  of  the  return  of  the  dot 
to  the  wife's  family  often  appears,'  while  the  prohibition  to  sell  bien$ 
tufhies  is  to  be  attributed  to  the  effect  of  feudalism.  It  is  necessary 
in  the  Pyrenean  customs  to  state  whether  by  primogeniturt  is  meant 
ahsciute  primc^eniture,  i.e.  male  ot  female,  or  maU  primogeniture 


ceame  I 


E.g.  Old  Vutt  Rub.  xxxL,  Art.  6S. 


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only.  Male  primogeniture  is  upheld  in  noble  families,  and  in  the 
New  I'or  a  father  can  leave  even  the  domaine  rural  to  one  child, 
as  is  the  case  in  most  of  the  Basque  Fors.  In  this  way  the  New  For 
made  succession  to  roturier  property  similar  to  that  to  noble,  whereas 
the  older  ones  had  here  previously  favoured  equal  partition. 

To  conclude.  The  effect  that  barbaric,  especially  Germanic, 
legislation  has  had  upon  the  Fueros  and  Fors  it  is  difficult  to  esti- 
mate, because  so  much  of  this  was  itself  saturated  with  Roman 
principles  of  law.  It  is  not  only  in  the  compendia  to  other 
5>*stems,  as  in  the  case  of  "  Les  Lois  de  TEmpereur "  and  "  Les 
Bdnrffices  "  as  r^ards  (he  Old  Fors  of  B&irn,  that  Roman  juris- 
prudence is  to  be  found,  but  it  also  appears  welded  in  the  system 
itself,  often  perhaps  unconsciously  to  the  people  to  whom  such 
system  belonged.  For  example,  the  principle  of  mttayage  (cf.  gazalka) 
was  not  directly  derived  from  the  practice  of  Frankish  and  Lombard 
sovereigns  granting  away  parts  of  the  public  domain  to  their  soldiers, 
but  from  the  gifts  to  the  ccloni  ffwrffV/arrV  of  earlier  date.'  But  we  may 
be  pretty  sure  that  the  freedom  of  dealing  with  acquired  property 
though  not  with  Urre  nobU  granted  by  the  Fors  came  from  the  German 
practice  as  to  Wtkrgtld  ^w^  /fafius  tnoncyt  though  their  practice  was 
different  as  to  AUod.  Perhaps,  in  nothing  is  pure  Germanic 
influence  more  clearly  seen  than  in  the  necessity  for  the  consent  of 
children  to  any  interference  with  their  rights*  to  family  property. 
In  Gains'  time  the  patria  potcstas  was  almost  at  its  zenith,  and  yet 
it  little  influenced  those  free  Germans  whose  root  idea  was  the 
"corporate  union  of  the  family"  under  the  Mund,  Is  this  not  to  be 
seen,  too,  in  the  language  of  almost  every  chart  in  the  Pyrenees? 
"  I  Gaston  grant,  and  I  Talese  his  wife  confirm,  and  I  Centulle  their 
son  likewise  confirm  " '  were  the  words  of  the  grant  of  a  For  to 
Morlaas.  The  favour  shown  a  widow  is  also  of  Germanic  origin,*  as 
is  Esdiif,  or  the  right  of  the  accused  to  clear  himself  by  his  own 
oath  and  that  oi  conjuraiores.^  These  and  many  more  like  customs, 
such  as  great  length  of  prescription,  attributable  to  the  Church*s 
influence,  are  to  be  clearly  seen  in  the  Fors,  with  which  the  Romans 
had  nothing  directly  to  do,  contrary,  however,  to  the  opinion  of  the 
learned  Marca,* 


'  Maine,  Ancunt  Zme,  p.  301.     But  the  system  itself  was  much  earlier. 

•  For  <le  Morlau,  Rab.  xxxi..  Aits.  71  utd  75.  ud  Rub.  sUx.,  AiL  (7S. 

•  Muca's  ffist.  9/£/am,  p.  336. 

'  Lafcrricrc,  Ef^ut  Ctliiqut^  ii,  66. 
'  5f  irai'i  Hist.  0/  B^rm,  p.  891. 

•  o:  tit.,  p.  344. 


Sources  of  IVest-Pyrcnean 


The  large  extent  of  ground  that  it  has  l>een  ncccssjir>'  to  cover 
has  of  necessity  made  this  study  somewhat  slight.  ](  shows,  how- 
cTcr,  how  far-reaching  was  the  effect  of  the  earlier  Roman  law 
throughout  the  Pyrenees,  trAnsccnding  as  it  did  purely  Keltic  or 
aanic  customSi  and  also  the  living  influence  of  feudalism. 
•  joint  effect  vras  beneficial,  and,  if  the  Church's  iiifluciice  hod 
en  less  upon  the  Spanish  vcrsant,  culminating  as  vrc  5nd  il  in 
the  introduction  of  the  Inquisition,  with  the  general  use  of  Torture 
and  other  attendant  horrors,  the  condition  of  this  district  in  the 
Middle  Ages  would  upon  the  whole  compare  favourably  with  that  of 
any  other.  The  inliabilants,  if  poor,  were  for  the  most  part  free,  and 
had  privileges  which  enabled  them  to  live  better  than  the  peasant 
elsewhere.  For  the  Pyrcncan  proprietor,  tliough  no  dominus  ttrrtt 
Jaiiidmus^  was  yet  often  in  good  sooth  satis  beatus  untm  Sabinis, 


ADDITIONAL  NOTES. 


Perhaps  the  most  useful  book  on  enrly  Pyrcnean  Spanish  law  is 
"  Historiadelderecho  en  Caialuna,  Mallorcay  Valuncia,  Codigodc  los 
Costumbras  de  Tortosa,  por  el  D,  S.  O.  Bienvenido  Oliver."  4  vols. 
Svo.  Madrid,ed.  1876-1881  (MigueIGenesta,cal!cdeCampomanes8). 
There  are  also  subsequent  volumes.  His  view  is  llwt  the  chief 
sources  of  Pyrcncan  law  are  (i)  Pirrnaica,  costumbras  y  tradiciones 
Vascas,  de  Bigorre,  Valle  dc  Aran,  Pcrpignan  y  Aragon. 

(2)  Catalufia^  Los  Le}'es  Visigodas,  Los  Usatgcs  Costumbras  de 
Barcelona,  Lcrida,  Mallorca  y  Valencia. 

(3)  Gothica,  Germanic  from  the  North. 

(4)  JRamana,  Western  Roman  Law.  Justinian  or  Komano* 
Byzantine  not  being  known  in  the  Pyrenees  till  the  twelfth  century. 

(5)  Eccicneutka  or  Canonica. 

(6)  Municipia,  as  Dcrtossa  (now  Tolosa)  which  rounicipia  Of 
colonia  all  modelled  on  Roman  law,  yet  preser%'cd  their  own 
laws  and  customs.  See  Aulus  Gellius.  Noctes  Attica:,  Lib.  XVI. 
CI 3,  Paris,  1847.  Hadnanusmiran'seostenditquodctipBiltaliccnscSr 
ct  quxdamitem  alia  munJcipia  antiqua  in  quibus  Hltiosenses  nominate 
cum  suis  morihus  legil>u«jue  uli  possent  in  jus  coloniarum  mutarc 
gesdverint  This  author  also  quotes  with  approval  front  1  .aferrihc, 
"Histoirede  Droit  Fran^ais,"  tomciL  37 — "There are  three  national 
types  which  hare  been  well  conserved  :  Ei  Euskaro  0  f^<rj('<T  (Basque) 
in  the  West,  <*/  Idero-La/ino,  which  predominates  in  Beam,  Bigorre, 
CoaUDiogcsv  and  Foix,  and  <l  Visile  or  Idero-GtrmanUo^  itU\cU  Vk 


■■ 

H^^^^^^^H 

1 

The  Genilemaits  Magazine. 

rved  in  RousiUon  and  Catalonia."    Further  he  says  that 
1  legislation  there  is  some  Roman  element. 

the   effect  of  Roman  law  in   Aquitania  (Guyenne)  the 
uable    book    is     "  Rerum    Aquitaniarum    libri    quinque, 
D.  Alteserra,"  Tolosa,  1648.     The  gist  of  it  is  that  in 

land  was  allodial ;  that   there  the  Roman  law  persisted, 
nrrently  with  it  ran  older  and  other  customs  :  "  Legum 
iva  non  est  vilis  auctoritas,  sed  non  adeo  valent  ut  usum 
t    mores    (p.    226)."      He  treats  the  curiae  of  Aquitanian 
"avitae  Ubertatis  reliquiae"  (p.  183).  Cf.  Maine,  "Ancient 
joa.     In  the  union  of  the  country  of  Toulouse  and  of  all 
with  France,  it  was  stipulated  "  ut  jus  commune  iUabaium 
"  (p.  ao4). 

A.   Rn   WHITEWAV. 

1 

■ 

• 


k 


IVHEN  LONDON  LIGHTS  THE  SKY. 

"  'T^WENTY-six  miles,  four  furlongs  out  from  Tyburn   Turnpike 

X  OD  the  great  road  to  Birmingham  you  reach  a  small  town 
of  399  houses  and  1,963  inhabitants.  Post-horses  can  be  supplied  at 
the  King's  Arras.  Here  is  a  receiving  house,  and  the  mails  anive  at 
3  o'clock  in  the  morning,  leaving  again  at  10  at  night." 

So  runs  a  record  of  the  year  18 19,  and  anyone  electing  to  make 
the  journey  to  London  by  the  above  10  o'clock  mail  would  travel 
through  the  night  by  way  of  Boxmoor  and  Watford  over  Bushey 
Heath  to  Stanmore,  and  passing  toll-gates  at  Edgware  and  Kilbum, 
would  arrive  in  the  small  hours  of  the  morning  at  the  spot  where 
the  Marble  Arch  will  soon  cease  to  be. 

At  the  above  small  town,  now  increased  sixfold,  I  lately  arrived 
by  train  two  hours  after  dark  on  a  black  November  night,  when  the 
warm  still  air  dense  with  moisture  was  condensing  into  a  universal 
pitiless  drizzle.  The  dark  and  lonely  roadway  into  the  town  was 
aiterly  deserted,  and,  all  objects  being  shrouded  in  gloom,  it  suited 
my  humour  to  mentally  put  myself  back  in  time  and  try  to  imagine 
that  for  all  tliat  could  be  seen  or  heard  it  still  might  be  eighty  years 
igo.  But  this  idea  was  by  one  small  circumstance  rudely  dispelled. 
Far  away  in  the  S.E.  was  a  broad  red  glow,  faint  but  steady,  and 
stretching  skyward.  Ixmdon  lay  over  there,  and  it  was  impossible 
thai  her  light  could  have  been  seen  as  now  two  or  three  generations 
«go. 

I  returned  to  the  same  spot  with  an  old  resident,  who  noted 
nothing  unusual  in  the  spectacle,  and,  as  merely  stating  a  well-attested 
tact,  said,  "  When  London  lights  the  sky  like  thai  we  look  for  stormy 
weather."  I  enquired  if  the  light  were  never  seen  in  the  dry  east 
winds  of  spring,  to  which  my  informant  replied  that  "  tf  so  it  nas  at 
iny  rate  a  different  kind  of  light  from  what  we  then  saw." 

^VhOe  he  was  speaking  there  was  a  sudden  shriek,  and  round  the 
£ar  corner  the  down  express  dashed  into  sight  at  some  fifty  miles  an 
hour  Qying  against  the  wind.  To  us  the  actual  train  was  invisible, 
oftly  the  under  side  of  a  rolling  fiery  trail  was  seen,  which  lengthened 


I  T  TM^  iTTl^i^^-^*^'  '-'     -  '"'^^ 


96 


The  GentlemayCs  Magazine, 


out  and  again  shortened  as,  with  altering  perspective,  the  engine 
passed  and  sped  away  in  the  distance.  Then,  when  some  half-mile 
from  us,  the  glare  of  its  furnace  was  caught  anew  in  a  long  lurid 
streak  thrown  backward  high  in  the  sky,  doubtless  reflected  off  the 
moist  cloud  which,  issuing  from  the  funnel,  had  now  escaped  into 
upper  air.  In  this  incident  of  the  train  I  had  sufficient  proof,  if  such 
were  needed,  that  the  distant  glow  to  the  S.E.  was  but  the  light  of 
I^ondon's  million  lamps  reflected  from  watery  haze  condensed  out  of 
the  motsture-ladc:n  air. 

Herein  was  in  truth  the  verification  of  an  old  weather  sign.  It 
is  said  at  Chiswick — which,  it  should  be  observed,  lies  to  the  W.S.W. 
of  London  and  only  seven  miles  from  Charing  Cross,  that  when  the 
lights  from  the  distant  streets  are  seen  in  the  sky  rain  may  be  ex- 
pected next  day.  And  other  versions  of  the  same  weather-saw  may 
be  found  elsewhere.  In  the  same  way  again  the  watermen  at  Dover 
declare  that  when  Calais  lights  up  the  night  sky  then  wind  is  coming, 
and  wind  and  rain  arc  but  synonymous  terms  in  those  jaws  of  the 
Channel  through  which  cyclonic  disturbances  are  for  ever  struggling. 
It  is  seldom  realised,  save  by  aeronauts  and  mountaineers,  how 
much  watery  haze  the  lower  air  contains.  Blue  sky  itself  is  but  the 
ultimate  fading  out  of  haze,  and  when  lower  layers  of  the  atmosphere 
are  surmounted  the  blue  above  is  bluer  than  before  only  by  reason 
of  the  haze  there  being  more  attenuated.  The  result  of  the  most 
recent  investigations  carried  out  chiefly  by  high-flying  kites  goes  to 
show  that  though  at  great  heights  the  air  may  be  spoken  of  as  dry, 
this  is  but  a  relative  term.  Commonly  about  one-half  of  the  water 
vapour  in  the  air  is  left  below  by  the  time  the  first  mile  and  a  half  is 
climbed  ;  but  the  actual  moisture  present  varies  with  circumstances. 
Thus  up  to  a  few  thousand  feet  the  air  is  drier  during  winter  and  at 
night  and  damper  during  summer  and  by  day,  than  it  is  near  the 
grotmd. 

In  the  light  of  these  iacts  it  becomes  easy  to  conceive  how  in 
certain  conditions  of  moist  weather  and  on  a  dark  night  the  light  of 
a  large  town  reflected  in  the  heaven  may  be  seen  even  at  a  long 
distance.  Under  the  clear  skies  of  other  lands  reflection  may  be 
seen  on  the  under  surface  of  a  cloud  over  great  ranges ;  thus  the 
cloud-heaps  over  thunderstorms  on  the  American  prairies  may 
sometimes  be  seen  at  night  on  the  horizon  at  a  distance  amounting 
to  some  aoo  miles.  Again,  it  will  be  easy  to  grasp  the  further  fact 
that  haK  in  the  air  is  more  cleariy  manifested  to  the  observer  who, 
whether  in  a  balloon  or  on  a  mountain  side,  has  climbed  above  its 
lower  moister  levels.    Here  the  explanation  is]  simply  that  from  his 


IFAfn  London  Lights  the  Sky. 


new  point  of  view  the  haze  is  seen  against  the  dark  carlb  white  bdng 
itself  illumtiuted  by  the  light  from  the  sky  above. 

An  interesting  speculation  will  find  place  here  as  to  the  appearance 
which  our  earth  would  present  to  an  observer  removed  entirely  out- 
side her  limits— say  to  an  inlubitant  on  ^Ll^s.  It  will  almost  seem 
that  as  a  telescopic  object  our  planet  must  sadly  lack  clear  definition. 
The  abundance  of  cloud  alone  would  bring  this  about,  but  even 
where  clouds  were  not  there  would  still  be  the  entire  depth  of  the 
moisture  in  the  atmosphere  to  blur,  in  the  way  we  have  been  con- 
sidering, the  outline  of  seas  and  continents  which  we  are  in  the 
habit  of  picturing  as  so  clearly  defined. 

Perhaps  few  facts  are  more  strikii^  than  the  actual  statement  in 
figures  of  what  the  presence  in  the  air  of  mere  moisture  amounts  to. 
In  actual  quantity  it  is  altogether  inconsiderable,  being  less  tlian  one- 
half  per  cent.  But  its  physical  effect  is  astounding.  Experiment 
shows  that  the  quantity  of  aqueous  vapour  contained  in  the  atmo- 
sphere, minute  as  it  is,  nevertheless  absorbs  more  than  seventy  times 
the  amount  of  radiant  heat  absorbed  by  the  air  itself. 

But  an  intensely  interesting  question  is  opened  up  by  the  con- 
sideration that  the  vault  of  heaven  may  be  lit  up  by  light  reflected 
from  quite  another  source,  and  one  which  so  far  has  only  been  hinted 
at.  If  distant  London  can  light  the  sky  with  a  glow  of  another 
type  when  dry  east  winds  are  blowing,  then  we  must  suppose  tliat 
■  the  reflecting  particles  in  this  case  are  not  moisture  but  rather  dust 
—dust  carried  far  aloft  from  off  the  face  of  a  broad  continent  and 
held  captive  in  the  upper  air.  There  are  various  ways  of  conceiving 
how  so  vast  a  cloud  canopy  can  be  lifted  into  space  off  the  arid 
plains — the  mere  columns  of  warmer  air  rising  off  heated  earth 
surfaces  may  suffice  to  bear  upwards  clouds  of  impalpable  dust, 
just  as  they  carry  far  into  the  sky  light  floating  seeds  that  will  not 
infrequently  soar  upwards  past  a  lofty  balloon.  Or  again  the  cause 
may  be  found  in  the  eddying  movements  of  air  with  which  we  are 
so  familiar,  and  which  on  a  large  scale  are  spoken  of  as  cyclones. 
These  are  known  to  be  capable  of  whirling  dust  particles  into  the 
atmosphere  up  to  very  considerable  heights. 

Naturally  it  must  be  only  the  finest  particles  that  can  be  carried 
Hx  aloft  and  remain  long  suspended  in  the  thinner  air.  But  in  real 
fact  such  finely  divided  dust  is  being  perpetually  created  by  commo- 
tion great  or  small  constantly  going  on  on  the  earth.  Let  me  give- 
an  illustratioa 

There  is  among  the  familiar  "animated  pictures"  exhibited  by 
the   Rjnematograph  a  well-known  representation  of  the  thtcnrat% 
VOL.  ccxci.    NO.  2047.  \i 


J 


98 


The  GeniiematCs  Magazine. 


down  of  a  condemned  tall  chimney-sUck.  The  picture  shows  a 
lai^c  portion  of  one  side  of  the  base  of  the  chimney  removed  and 
replaced  temporarily  with  timber  struu.  Then  a  fierce  burning  fire 
is  kindled  around  these  props  and  the  work  of  demolition  is  watched 
from  a  safe  distance.  In  due  time,  the  fiames  having  done  their 
work,  the  lofty  stack  inclines  slightly  from  the  perpendicular,  and 
then,  as  one  entire  whole,  falls  with  a  mighty  sweep  to  earth.  But 
while  we  watch  the  picture  perhaps  what  strikes  us  most  is  the 
silence  of  the  catastrophe.  The  fall  is  so  realistic  and  so  apparently 
near,  that  tlie  crash  impresses  us  by  its  absence.  In  actual  fact  the 
result  of  the  falling  mass  would  be  terrific.  Its  sudden  arrest 
would  mean  its  conversion  into  heat  and  into  violent  vibrations  of 
the  air  producing  sound.  But  as  such  results  do  not  appeal  to  the 
eye  the  impression  for  a  moment  is  that  the  *'  moving  picture  "  can 
teli  nothing  of  the  after  effects  of  the  great  impact.  And  yet  if 
closely  watched  it  docs.  Over  the  fallen  ruins  there  immediately 
bangs  a  small  white  cloud,  shortly  vanishing  into  clear  air. 

This  it  may  be  said  is  but  a  trinal  consequence  of  such  large 
commotion,  and  yet  in  a  sense  this  too  will  be  hardly  a  correct 
statement.  The  amount  of  impalpable  di^bris  consigned  to  the 
air  is  indeed  relatively  small,  but  its  effects  may  be  almost  inconceiv- 
ably great  and  far-reaching.  Professor  Tyndall  brought  out  this 
fact  by  exhaustive  investigations,  showing  that  it  is  matter  in  the  air 
which  chiefly  inBuences  its  power  to  transmit  radiant  heat.  Dealing 
witli  one  of  his  experiments  he  asserts  that  "  an  amount  of  impurity 
loo  small  to  be  seen  by  the  eye  is  sufficient  to  augment  fiflyfold 
the  action  of  the  air." 

We  have  certain  means  of  examining  and  testing  the  actual  dust* 
motes  that  hang  above  us.  The  readiest  of  these  are  perhaps  the 
showers  of  rain  which  wash  the  sky,  or  the  flakes  of  snow  which, 
slowly  falling,  carry  down  the  dust  from  great  heights.  By  these 
agents  careful  and  accurate  analyses  have  been  made  limes  out  of 
number  of  the  dust  which  has  gone  heavenwards,  and  which  has 
proved  to  be  organic  as  well  as  inorganic ;  but  to  deal  adequately 
with  the  results  obtained  would  need  a  separate  article. 

We  have,  however,  to  recognise  that  by  no  means  all  the  dust 
has  come  from  below.  Some,  and  not  a  little,  hails  from  no  man 
knows  where,  except  that  it  nmsl  be  from  the  void  of  space.  Thia, 
it  may  be  supposed  to  have  come  from  other  worlds  destroyed,  or, 
if  we  like  to  think  it,  from  worlds  that  were  never  formed.  There 
is  not  only  no  doubt  of  this,  but  there  have  been  very  plausible 
calculations  made  as  to  the  actual  amoont  of  cosmic  debris  thai 


r 


IV^n  London  Lights  the  Sky. 


from  this  source  alone  comes  into  our  atmosphere.  Thus  one  of  out 
greatest  authorities  has  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  it  is  approxi- 
mately not  greatly  less  than  one  hundred  tons  or  greatly  more  than 
one  thousand  tons  in  the  course  of  every  day.  This  quantity,  large 
in  the  abstract,  may  appear  after  all  to  be  relatively  smalt^  and  we 
have  to  look  to  our  own  earth  and  the  forces  which  reside  within  it 
as  the  main  source  from  which  our  great  dust  atmosphere,  as  we 
must  regard  it,  comes. 

And  in  truth  the  air  does  comprise  a  great  dust  atmosphere  all 
its  own.  This  has  been  made  patent  to  alt  scientific  explorers  of  the 
air.  But  results  become  far  more  remarkable  and  instructive  when 
gathered  far  away  from  tlie  reach  of  land.  As  one  example  of  such 
a  result  we  may  cite  that  obtained  by  Professor  Piazzi  Smyth,  whose 
observing  station  was  the  lofty  peak  of  TenerifTe,  standing  far  out  in 
mid'Ocean.  Tliis  accurate  observer  records  IiavJng  seen,  from  high 
Up  the  mountain,  strata  of  dust  rising  to  an  altitude  of  over  a  mile, 
and  extending  to  the  limits  of  the  visible  horizon  ;  sometimes,  more- 
over, so  dense  as  to  hide  the  neighbouring  island  mountain,  the  peak 
alone  of  which  was  seen  standing  out  of  what  was  virtually  a  dust 
ocean.  Perhaps  it  is  not  altogeihcr  a  welcome  thought  and  yet  one 
that  we  must  recognise,  that  e\'en  in  our  proverbially  purest  air — 
that  which  lies  over  the  broad  ocean — there  is  to  be  found  this 
enormous  admixture  of  what  we  have  to  regard  simply  as  foreign 
matter. 

Some  few  facts  might  find  a  place  here,  which,  though  admitting 
of  no  real  question,  seem  almost  to  belong  to  the  world  of  romance. 
When  Chicago  was  burned  io  1871  the  mere  smoke  that  arose  was 
perceived  as  far  away  as  the  Pacific  coast,  or,  in  other  words,  from 
2,ooo  miles  away  particles  of  soot  were  seen  floating  in  the  air,  and 
if  this  meajis  that  they  had  risen  fairly  above  the  horizon,  then  firoro 
considerations  of  the  mete  curvature  of  the  earth  we  have  to  conceive 
that  these  particles  were  l}'ing  in  a  dense  mass  at  several  miles  above 
the  earth's  surface. 

But  a  fiercer  fire  went  heavenward  in  1883  when  near  the  corner 
of  Sumatra  the  volcanic  mountain  of  Krakatoa  broke  into  eruption. 
The  story  of  the  result  of  this  came  in  from  almost  all  over  the  world. 
Fine  dust — so  fine  that  it  took  many  months  to  subside — seems  to 
have  spread  the  globe  round  in  a  direction  opposed  to  lower  prevail- 
ing winds.  In  the  tropics  the  air  became  so  laden  with  this  dust 
that  the  sun  grew  blue,  and  then  green  as  it  sank  towards  the  horizon. 
In  England  similar  phenomena  were  observed  differing  only  in 
intensity,  while  the  afterglow  assumed  such  abnormal  vividness  as 


xoo 


The  Genllemans  Magazifte. 


to  penetrate  and  colour  a  winter's  fog.  More  than  this,  in  the  towns 
the  fogs  during  this  period  grew  crimson  when  lit  merely  by  street 
gaslight.  Neither  was  this  the  end  of  the  wonder.  At  night-time 
there  were  seen  for  a  lengthened  period,  but  gradually  fading,  what 
were  spoken  of  as  "  luminous  douds,"  which  were  doubtless  but 
another  evidence  of  the  same  dust  floating  at  a  height  estimated  at 
at  least  sixty  miles. 

The  story  of  Krakatoa  is  no  isolated  one.  The  Loess  or  loamy 
dust  of  China  has  been  pretty  certainly  proved  to  have  been  borne 
aloft  and  carried  at  least  a  quarter  round  the  globe,  having  been 
found  floating  as  a  permanent  dust  atmosphere  above  the  highest 
mountains  of  California. 

Again,  in  1880  Mr.  Whymper  watched  an  eruption  of  Cotopaxi 
sixty-five  miles  away.  On  that  occasion  an  uprush  of  inky  smoke 
towered  into  the  air,  and  then  was  borne  away  horizontally,  c^'entually 
after  several  hours  i>assing  in  front  of  the  sun,  which  thereupon 
assumed  a  green  tint,  different  from  any  that  the  observer  bad  ever 
witnessed  in  the  heavens. 

Having  then  no  uncertain  information  of  what  the  sky  may  be 
trusted  to  reveal  respecting  the  matter  it  holds  within  it  at  varying 
levels  up  to  an  unlimited  height,  we  are  justified  in  devoting  the 
most  careful  attention  to  all  such  lessons  as  it  con  teach  us.  What 
the  light  of  a  distant  town  tells  us  we  have  already  discussed,  but 
another  light,  that  of  the  sun,  hangs  below  the  horizon  twice  in  each 
day,  and  this  almost  constantly  lias  its  message — sometimes  in  the 
mddy  sundown,  revealing  only  the  presence  of  high  clouds  in  a 
dry  atmosphere ;  sometimes  in  the  yellower  sunset  tints  that  as  a 
rule  give  warning  of  wind;  again  in  the  dawn  when  ruddy  light 
will  usually  be  reflected  by  denser  clouds  which  have  been  settling 
through  the  night,  and  which  betray  vapour  already  gathering  for 
precipitation  and  rain. 

These  arc  only  generalisations,  but  the  light  and  colouring  in  the 
sky  afford  indications  which  are  manifold,  and  in  which  every 
intelligent  observer  will  learn  to  seek  many  of  his  surest  tokens. 

JOHN    M.    BACON. 


•.:-  :  A<>c\:  ^'  \  -:•:  :  }     i     '-:••' 


"  WORDS,  WORDS,  MERE  WORDS,  NO 
MATTER  FROM  THE  HEART" 

WHERE  go  all  the  words  that  are  spoken, 
Words  that  are  spoken  every  day  ? 
Vows  of  constancy,  secrets  broken, 

Heedless  words  that  men  lightly  say  ? 
Words  compelling,  that  all  obey, 

Bitter  words  with  a  poison  sting, 
Farewell  words,  of  life's  woe  the  token, 
Words  beseeching,  and  words  that  sing  ? 

Far  away  through  the  desert  places 

Fly  the  words  when  their  work  is  done  ; 
Fast  they  fly  through  the  wind-swept  spaces 

Where  no  moon  is,  where  shines  no  sun : 
Words  that  are  spoken,  evety  one, 

Bright  with  joyance,  or  dim  with  woe, 
Fly  and  leave  of  their  flight  no  traces 

More  than  leaves  in  the  air  the  snow. 

In  the  silence  resounds  their  story, 

*'  Strong  our  calling  and  keen  our  cry. 
Whether  we  tell  of  grief  or  glory. 

Kings  that  triumph  or  slaves  that  die  I 
At  our  bidding  men  smile  or  sigh. 

Falsehood,  treasure  and  truth  forget 
Youth  glad-hearted  and  Wisdom  hoary 

We  ensnare  in  our  star-gemmed  net ! " 

M^ords  I  ye  are  treacherous,  fleeting,  hollow : 
Thought  ye  baflle,  and  Hope  ye  bind, 

(Circling  swift  as  the  light-winged  swallow, 
Clouds  before  you  and  mists  behind.) 


Eyes  of  vision  ye  fain  T^rould  Hind, 
Joy  would  tear  from  the  storm-tossed  heart: 

Doubt  and  dread  in  your  footsteps  foHow, 
Trust  to  torture  and  souls  to  part 

Words,  how  bootless  are  rhyme  and  reason 

All  your  pitiless  power  to  prove  ! — 
So  the  wind  in  the  frost-bound  season 

Waves  of  the  ice-locked  mere  should  move. — 
But,  one  conquers  you — even  Love  ! 

In  Love's  Kingdom  abased  ye  fall  \ 
Love  can  laugh  at  your  guileful  (reason  : 

Love  needs  never  a  word  at  all. 

DORA   UlWE. 

• 

TABLE     TALK. 

Mr.  Baildon's  "Robert  Louis  Stevenson." 

THOSE  whom  my  recent  observations  concerning  Stevenson 
in  Southern  Seas  may  have  interested  I  venture  once  more  to 
address,  in  order  to  commend  to  their  attention  the  life-study  of  the  man 
by  Mr.  H.  Bellyse  Baildon.'  Being  got  up  uniform  with  the  principal 
works  of  Stevenson,  this  work  stands  a  good  chance  of  6nding  a 
place  in  every  Stevensonian  collection.  To  such  a  distinction  it  is 
entitled  by  its  own  intrinsic  merits.  A  school-friend  of  Stevenson, 
Mr.  Baildon  preserves  some  interesting  particulars  of  his  early  life.    In 

'  later  yeare  the  intimacy,  as  must  almost  of  necessity  be  the  case  when 
a  man  chooses,  as  did  Stevenson,  for  his  dwelling-place  spots  so  remote 
as  the  islands  of  the  Southern  Seas,  was  confined  to  correspondence. 
The  work  of  Mr.  Baildon  is  accordingly  less  interesting  from  the 

y  personal  revelations  it  furnishes  than  from  that  of  critical  estimate.  To 
those — if  any  arc  so  unhappy — who  are  debarred  from  access  to 
Stevenson's  works,  this  study  of  them  will  stand  as  the  best  available 
substitute.  A  couple  of  admirably  executed  portraits  add  to  the 
attractions  of  a  volume  which  the  student  of  Stevenson  will  hasten 
to  possess.     I  have  only  one  faint  of  alteration  to  make.      When 

■  Robert  Bums  speaks  of  the  exhilarating  influence  of  "  a  pint,"  it 

kmight  be  worth  while  to  inform  the  "Southron"  reader  that  a 
sh  pint  is  the  equivalent  of  two  Saxon  quarts.     I  own,  however, 

kthai  it  is  not  in  the  least  Mr.  Baildon's  duty,  even  though  it  might 

Ibe  bis  privilege,  to  enlighten  English  ignorance. 


WlLD-BlRD  PROTECTION- 

IHAVE  more  than  once  drawn  attention  to  the  fact  that  bird  life 
is  more  abundant  in  or  near  London  than  it  was  a  few  years 
|aga    My  observation  is  confined  to  what  can  be  seen  or  heard  from 
'  study  windows,  or  observed  during  a  prowl  through  the  fields  and 
I  Uses  that  environ  Hampstead  and  Highgate.    I  am  delighted, 

'  Quito  &  Wtodiu. 


104 


The  Gtntitmafts  Magazine. 


however,  to  leam  from  genuine  woodlanders  that  the  results  of  wild- 
bird  protection  are  becoming  manifest.  Writing  in  the  Cornhili 
Magazine,  Mr.  C  J.  Cornish  gives  some  eminently  gratifying  infor- 
mation on  the  subject.  On  a  particular  spot  with  which  he  is 
concerned  Mr.  Cornish  says :  "  There  are  now  some  five  or  six 
hundred  pairs  of  terns,  lesser  terns,  shore  curlews,  redshanks,  and 
peewits  nesting  where  ten  years  ago  there  were  not  one-sixth  of  the 
number."  From  various  quarters  comes  the  information  that  many 
varieties  of  birds,  including,  in  Northumberland,  flycatchers  and 
woodj)eckers,  "flourish  exceedingly."  One  discouraging  faa  re- 
mains, that  "  goldtinches  and  linnets  arc,  in  some  districts,  almost 
exterminated  by  bird-catchers,  and  the  mountain  linnet  or  twite  has 
become  rare'*  in  Cumberland.  The  loss  of  these  birds  of  sweetest 
song  is  much  to  be  deplored.  As  a  rule  the  districts  are  richest  in 
bird  life  wherein  the  great  landed  proprietors  co-operate  with  County 
Councils  or  with  other  administratois  of  the  Wild-Bird  I'reservation 
-\cis.  On  the  whole,  then,  considering  how  far  from  adequate  is  the 
legislation  that  has  been  passed,  and  how  grave  and  numerous  are  the 
difHculties  in  the  way  of  its  administration,  the  reports  I  now  read 
are  encouraging. 

Sea  Birds  the  Fisherman's  Friends. 

TO  one  curious  fact,  very  encouraging  to  those  who  seek  to 
protect  bird  life,  Mr.  Comisli  draws  attention.  The  entire 
race  of  sea-gulls  is  now,  he  says,  under  the  special  protection 
of  the  fishermen  of  the  coast  of  South  Devon.  The  explana- 
tion of  this  is  as  follows :  "  Four  winters  ago  two  large 
ships,  passing  up  Channel  in  a  dense  fog,  were  warned  of  their 
approach  to  the  rocks  by  the  incessant  calling  of  the  sea-fowl,  which 
had  greatly  increased  in  numbers  and  tameness  since  they  had  been 
protected  by  the  Devonshire  County  Council"  No  longer  afraid  of 
man,  the  birds  flocked  to  the  ships  in  search  of  food,  and  so  gave 
warning  of  the  nearness  of  the  rock-bound  coasts.  Those  accord- 
ingly who  shoot  sea  birds  are  regarded  in  Devon  as  no  friends  to 
the  fisherman.  The  birds  themselves  preach  the  lesson  of  their 
own  defence.  This  recalls  the  moral  of  Coleridge's  "Ancient 
Mariner." 

SVLVANUS   L'RBAN. 


THE 


GENTLEMAN'S  MAGAZINE. 

August  1901, 


THE   TIVELVE  SIGNS, 


By  W.  B.  Wallace. 


No.  3  Charlotte  Square. 

WITHOUT  doubt  Bloomsbury  is  a  region  of  "restful  quiet," 
as  the  owners  of  certain  private  hotels  in  that  favoured 
locality,  with  a  pleasing  absence  of  the  usual  mendacity  of  the 
Lvanserai,  proudly  and  exultingly  term  it  in  their  advatisements. 
:  eternal  but  muifled  roar  of  the  great  city,  so  near  and  yet  so  far, 
ather  enhances  tlian  detracts  from  the  tranquil  enjoyment  of  its 
staid  inhabitants.  The  mighty  ocean  of  life  surges  and  chafes 
around  them,  it  is  true,  but  only  its  peaceful  ripples  reach  their 
island  shores,  and  from  their  secure  havens  ihey  look  forth  with 
Lucretian  complacency — not  unmingled,  let  us  hope,  with  pity — 
upon  those  who  are  toiling  and  moiling  and  occasionally  making 
shipwreck  in  the  boiling  maelstrom  of  London.  This  blissful  retreat 
seems  lo  be  at  once  hallowed  and  ennobled  by  the  imposing  presence 
of  the  British  Museum.  It  is  as  though  Pallas  Athene,  patroness  of 
learning  and  tutelary  divinity  of  the  great  army  of  struggling  authors 
penniless  students  who  daily  resort  with  the  zeal  of  Avicenna  to 
'  great  Palace  of  Books,  had  spread  her  sgis  over  the  place,  and 
transformed  it  into  the  best  imitation  possible  in  a  busy  metropolis 
those  classic  shades  once  so  dear  to  her  heart— the  groves  of 
adcmus.  Nor  arc  the  dwellers  in  Bloomsbury  unworthy  of  their 
environment,  for  they  are,  or  have  been,   as  a  rule,   ialelVtcX\»\ 

TOU  OCXCL     Ha  M48.  \ 


^mm 


J 


io6 


The  GentUntati 5  Magazine^ 


vrorking-bees  of  the  great  London  hive — artists,  literary  men,  retired 
merchants,  and  members  of  the  learned  professions. 

Charlotte  Square  is  in  tlie  heart  of  Bloomsbury,  and  a  very 
typical  portion  of  it.  It  is  a  small  inclosure,  scarcely  perhaps  repre- 
senting with  mathematical  accuracy,  the  6gurc  denoted  by  its  nam^ 
and  boasting  a  few  formal  scats,  a  few  formal  flower  beds,  and  a  few 
equally  formal  gravel  paths,  converging  upon  a  fountain,  insignificant 
and  of  a  debased  style  of  art,  in  the  centre  of  the  pleasance.  This 
metropolitan  Eden  is  surrounded  by  tail,  solemn,  respectable  red- 
brick houses,  whose  one  attempt  at  originality  or  eccentricity  is 
displayed  in  their  hall  doors,  the  {lanels  of  which  are  ablaze  with 
gilding  and  the  most  crude,  glaring,  and  incongruous  colours. 
Every  man,  it  is  said,  is  insane  on  one  point,  and  the  dictum  must 
be  extended  to  houses ;  for  the  most  prim  and  demure  dwellings 
sometimes  irretrievably  forfeit  their  character  for  sanity  and  sobriety 
by  one  outrageous  freak— one  damning  flaw— one  unpardonable 
violation  of  that  good  taste  whose  laws  men  and  mansions  must  obey. 
But  notwithstanding  the  azure  here,  the  ochre  there,  and  the 
-vermilion  elsewhere,  all  picked  out  with  gold,  which  adorned  and 
beautified^or  the  reverse — its  presumably  hospitable  |)ortals, 
Charlotte  Square  at  the  time  of  which  we  write  might  very  fairly 
have  been  considered,  taking  it  on  the  whole,  the  pink  of  propriety, 
had  it  not  been  for  the  fatal  delinquencies  of  No.  3.  This  house 
was  an  insult,  an  anachronism,  a  plague  spot,  a  reflection  upon  the 
morals  and  respectability,  not  alone  of  Charlotte  Square,  but  of  alt 
Bloomsbur)'.  It  was  as  though  some  fell  Bohemian  magician,  at 
war  with  the  decencies  and  conventionalities  of  modern  life,  had 
transported  it  from  the  realms  of  Comus  and  set  it  down  in  the 
midst  of  a  quiet,  law-abiding  neighbourhood,  there  to  be  a  perennial 
scandal  and  rock  of  offence  to  the  inhabitants. 

And  yet  No.  3  had  not  always  been  cursed  with  this  ^\\\  reputa- 
tion. Its  fortunes,  in  fact,  were  not  dissimilar  to  those  of  Foe's 
<■  Haunted  Pabce."  In  the  time  of  its  former  owner,  Mr.  Obadiab 
Dcncb,  no  finger  in  Bloomsburj-  could  have  pointed  at  it,  whether 
in  derision  or  disapprobation.  The  old  Indian  merchant,  who  liad 
been  a  trusted  agent  of  Warren  Hastings  in  his  extremely  question- 
able dealings  with  the  Trinccsscs  of  Oudc,  had  shaken  the  pagoda-lrce 
—  such  things  were  possible  in  the  days  of  John  Company— to  some 
purpose ;  the  glittering  fruit  had  come  down  upon  him  in  golden 
showers,  J  la  Jupiter  and  Danac  ;  and  when  he  returned  to  England, 
liis  yellow  face,  although  not  his  fortune,  was  commonly  regarded  as 
jjrrabolical  of  it— so  suggestive  in  tlwsc  days  was  Indian  jaundice 


The  Twelve  Signs, 


107 


of  Indian  gold  He  had  married  in  Calcutta  an  extremely  wealthy 
Eurasian  heiress,  and  the  fruit  of  their  union  bad  been  one  son,  who, 
in  deference  to  some  unexplained  ancestral  pcmhant  for  the  eupho- 
nious names  of  the  Hebrew  Minor  Prophets,  had  been  christened 
Amos.  When  Mr.  Dench  returned  to  England  he  was  a  widower, 
and  was  accoropacicd  by  this  son,  tben  a  boy  of  ten  years.  Thanks 
to  his  own  accumulations  and  his  wife's  fortune,  he  was  possessed  of 
princely  wealth,  which  he  promptly  proceeded  to  augment  by  pri- 
valely  embarking  in  the  lucrative  but  nefarious  career  of  a  London 
usurer.  As  far  as  externals  went,  howe\-er,  nobody  could  find  fault 
with  him.  His  residence  in  Charlotte  Square  rigidly  conformed  to 
the  orthodox  traditions  of  his  surroundings.  It  was,  in  (act,  Poc's 
Palace  in  its  first  stage,  minus  iLs  gracious  shapes  and  joyous  music; 
for  gloomy,  taciturn,  preoccupied,  and  misanthropic,  Mr.  Dench, 
although  a  stickler  for  the  decencies  and  proprieties  of  life,  neither 
saw  nor  went  into  company  ;  while  his  household  was  limited  indeed, 
consisting  only  of  his  son.  a  younger  brother,  Captain  Joel  Dench,  late 
of  the  H.E.I.C.S.,  and  two  rather  ancient  handmaidens.  The  only 
visitors  who  came  to  the  door  of  the  great  Bloomsbury  mansion  were 
proposing  borrowers  and  certain  lawny  Indians  and  Cingalese,  whose 
business  none  could  tell. 

For  fifteen  years  the  routine  of  existence  had  never  varied  an  ioia 
Obadiah  Dench  played  his  sordid  role  of  Ilarpagon  to  such  per- 
fection that,  although  nobody  had  any  precise  idea  what  he  was  worth, 
it  was  rumoured  that  he  had  more  than  quadrupled  the  wealth  be 
had  brought  back  with  him  from  India.  The  Captain,  who  was  a 
profound  scientist  and  a  confirmed  old  bachelor,  read,  wrote,  and 
worked  out  problems,  as  he  had  done  on  many  a  lonely  day  when  he 
was  stationed  in  the  sacred  but  turbulent  city  of  Benares;  while 
Amos,  a  long,  loose,  flabby  youth,  with  dull  leaden  eye  and  hanging 
underjaw,  as  yet  an  unknown  and  negligible  quantity,  spent  his  time 
in  indolence,  studying  with  scr\ile  adulation  his  father's  every  whim, 
and  nursing  within  him  the  seeds  of  hypocrisy,  cruelty,  treachery,  and 
profligacy,  ready  to  spring  up  and  flourish  and  bear  fruit  when  the 
sun  of  occasion  should  arise.  For  it  is  a  curious  fact  that  although 
both  are  Aiyans— members  of  the  great  Indo  Germanic  family — the 
offspring  of  an  English  father  and  an  Indian  or  Eurasian  mother 
rarely  tunis  out,  from  an  anthropological  point  of  view,  an  unqualified 
success. 

Indian  suns  and  the  glaring  desert  sands  had  played  havoc  with 
Obadiah  Dencb's  eyes,  and  his  hearing  had  become  sadly  defective. 
It  ts  obrious  that  men  labouring  under  such  disabilities  should  avQid 

\% 


io8 


The  Gentieman's  Magazine. 


London  thoroughfares  and  London  crossings  as  they  would  the 
plague,  the  cholera,  or  the  inSuenza ;  it  is  equally  obvious  to  the 
cynic  of  the  street  and  the  protective  policeman  that  these  are  pre- 
cisely the  persons  who  are  the  most  daring  and  foolhardy  of  pedes- 
trians. And  so  one  fine  day  this  old  hound  of  Ptutus,  keen  on  tho 
scent  of  lucre,  but  oblivious  of  all  else,  was  knocked  down  and  lost 
his  life  beneath  the  wheels  of  a  hansom. 

His  brother  did  not  miss  him,  for  there  had  never  been  any  sym- 
pathy between  Ihcm ;  and  his  son,  far  from  missing  him,  secretly 
rejoiced  at  the  dawn  of  the  day  of  liberty  —or  licence.  It  was  a  case 
of  7W^«  estmort :  vivt  Caligule.  Amos  Dench  was  five-and-twcnty, 
and  the  lamp  of  his  youth,  which  had  long  been  hidden  beneath  the 
bushel  of  a  slavish  and  despicable  fear,  was  promptly  taken  forth  from 
its  concealment  and  placed  upon  a  shameless  pedestal,  where  it  flamed 
and  flared  to  the  four  winds  of  heaven,  casting  a  lurid  radiance 
athwart  the  night,  and  attracting  to  itself  dire  shapes,  moths  with 
■human  heads  and  faces  and  harpy-claws,  creatures  of  the  outer  and 
fetid  darkness  of  the  London  streets.  Under  the  new  r^giftte  No.  3 
•Charlotte  Square  rapidly  fell  from  its  high  estate ;  the  second  stage  in 
the  history  of  Poe's  "  Haunted  Palace  "  was  soon  reached 

The  order  of  the  day  was  as  stereotyped  now— only  afler  a  very 
different  fashion— as  it  bad  been  during  the  life  of  Obadiah.  Every 
morning  the  staid  and  elderly  cook  and  the  equally  elderly  and  stilt 
primmer  housemaid — why  they  lingered  on  in  such  a  sink  of  iniquity 
was  a  puzzle  to  the  neighbours— were  exposed  to  the  incursions  of 
chefs,  waiters,  confectioners,  florists,  market  gardeners,  and  others, 
who  came  to  slay.  The  first  care  of  a  contingent  of  these  gentry  was 
to  clear  away  from  the  vast  dining-room  the  visible  signs  and  tokens 
of  the  preceding  night's  debauch,  such  as  the  dibris  of  the  banquet 
— empty  bottles,  broken  Stvrcs  and  other  costly  ware,  stained  and 
withered  orchids,  lilies,  camellias,  and  gardenias— with  all  or  most  of 
which  the  carpet  was  invariably  covered.  Then  the  kitchens  were 
requisitioned,  and  all  day  long  preparations  were  there  made,  regard- 
less of  expense,  for  a  new  feast  of  Camacho  at  night,  or  rather  in  the 
early  morning,  Amos  and  his  guests  waited  on  themselves — such 
was  his  fad— and  the  viands  were  cold  ;  but  all  the  delicacies  of  the 
season,  all  the  rarities  that  the  most  lavish  outlay  could  secure,  were 
there;  and  when  the  various  artistes  had  completed  tlicir  labours,  the 
banqucting-room  seemed  transformed  for  the  nonce  from  something 
worse  than  a  tap-room  into  a  veritable  Elysium,  bright  with  resplend- 
ent plate  and  blooming  exotics  as  redolent  of  mingled  perfumes  as 
ihc  j^ardens  of  Gulbtan,  while  the  gorgeous  t^t  emembU  was  bathed 


The  Twelve  Signs^ 


109 


in  ihe  chastened  rndiancc  of  colossal  shaded  standard  lamps.  Amos, 
who  slumbered  through  the  day  like  a  second  Mycerinus,  would  then 
put  in  an  appearance,  sur^'cy  and  approve  the  work  of  his  ministering 
genii,  and  subsequently  fare  forth  in  the  dark  into  the  worst  quarters 
of  the  town  in  quest  of  guests. 

"  Tell  me  what  a  man  reads,  and  I  can  lell  you  what  he  is,"  says 
some  superior  and  sapient  Individual.  It  was  perhaps  due  to  the 
Asiatic  strain  in  his  blood  that  the  only  works  which  Amos  had  per- 
used with  anything  like  interest  during  his  long  minority  had  been 
stories  of  imagination,  pure  and  simple — the  wilder  and  more  extrava- 
gant, the  better.  His  chief  favourites  had  been  the  "Arabian  Nights," 
the  "Persian  and  Turkish  Talcs,"  the  "Tales  of  the  Genii,"  the  marvel* 
lous  "  History  of  Maugraby,"  and  the  gloomy  but  magnificent 
"  Vathek."  This  fantastic  course  of  reading  had  wrought  as  power- 
fully upon  his  mind,  at  once  feeble  and  presumptuous,  as,  we  are  told, 
"  Amadis  de  Gaul "  and  other  mediaeval  romajices  did  upon  the  crazy 
wits  of  that  ingenious  Iberian  gentleman,  Don  Quixote  de  la  Mancha. 
When  therefore,  at  his  faiher's  death,  he  came  into  possession  of 
what  he  deemed  incjdiaustible  wealth,  he  determined,  like  the  worthy 
Hidalgo  of  Cervantes,  to  transfer  the  wondrous  adventures  which  be 
delighted  to  read  into  real  life— his  own  life,  with  himself  as  their 
bero.  Henceforth  London,  forsooth,  must  be  his  Bagdad,  the 
Thames  his  Tigris,  and  he,  Amos  Dench,  a  modem  Haroun 
Alraschid. 

His  uncle  never  interfered  with  him  ;  nor  indeed  would  he  have 
permitted  him  to  do  so  had  be  been  so  incline<L  Captain  Dench^ 
contemptuously  tolerated  by  his  nephew,  continued  to  occupy  his 
suite  of  apartments  as  heretofore,  although  under  sadly-altered  con- 
ditions. Often  and  often,  in  the  smalt  hours,  when  this  modem 
Archimedes  was  engaged  in  some  abstmse  calculation,  a  string  of 
cabs,  laden  with  the  Circes  of  Piccadilly  and  the  Haymarkct,  and 
their  male  companions,  would  rattle  up  to  the  door,  to  the  intense 
disgust  of  adjoining  peaceful  households,  and  dtsgoige  their  riotous 
occupants,  who,  under  the  auspices  of  Amos  as  Master  of  the  Revels, 
would  then  commence  the  agreeable  process  commonly  called 
"making  a  night  of  it."  But  the  military  sage  possessed  two  valuable 
phylacteries  :  imperturbable  sang-frei'd,  and  an  unrivalled  power  of 
abstraction.  The  popping  of  champagne  corks,  floating  fragments  of 
ribald  songs,  shrieks  of  ma;nad  laughter,  accentuated  by  masculine 
imprecations,  the  crash  of  shattered  glasses— ;iU  these  things  soon 
became  to  him  as  much  part  and  parcel  of  his  natural  and  accustomed 
atmosphere  as  the  cries  of  the  wounded  and  i.hc  d^\^%,  vVit  ^\tv  ^A 


no 


The  Gentleman  s  Magazim* 


catapult  and  balUsta,  and  the  various  discords  of  a  besi^ed  city 
were  10  the  philosopher  of  Syracuse  with  whom  we  have  compared 
him. 

II. 


The  Treasure, 

Captaim  Dekch  was  not  so  much  a  man  as  a  calculating  machine, 
lie  was  as  cold  and  passionless  as  Euclid  the  geometrician — whom 
one  can  never  somehow  picture  to  himself  as  a  family  man — was  or 
ought  to  have  been.  His  tall  and  meagre  figure,  his  high  and  polished 
cranium,  his  parchment  face,  eagle  nose,  and  sunken  eyes  were  of  the 
earth,  but  his  spirit  dwelt  in  a  mathematical  Nir\'ana  of  its  own, 
where  A'  was  no  longer  an  unknown  quantity ;  where  sine  jostled  cosine, 
and  tangent  cotangent ;  where  conic  sections,  differential  calculus, 
algebraic  formulae,  and  all  the  my&iic  entities  of  science  were  domi- 
ciled citizens,  and  met  and  associated  with  him  on  equal  and  friendly 
terms.  We  must  not  deny  him  the  possession  of  a  heart  in  the 
physiological  sense  of  the  word,  but  being,  as  he  was,  little  more  than 
a  mathematical  abstmction,  it  would  have  been  a  gross  mistake  to 
credit  him  with  that  sensibility  with  which,  by  a  confusion  of  ideas, 
the  important  internal  organ  in  question  has  come  to  be  synonymous. 
He  was  simply  a  man  without  vices  and  without  virtues,  cold, 
pitiless,  rigid,  and  impartial  as  Fate  herself,  neither  loving  nor  hating 
anything  or  anyone  on  earth.  Perhaps  the  latter  part  of  the  pro- 
position admits  of  qualification,  for  he  felt  something  as  nearly  akin 
to  hatred  as  was  possible  for  such  a  nature  as  his  for  anything  that 
interfered  with  or  drew  him  away  from  his  favourite  pursuits. 

At  the  commencement  of  his  mad  career  Amos  had  flippantly 
delegated  to  him  the  charge  of  all  financial  matters,  and  he  had 
accepted  the  responsibility,  believing  that  he  owed  his  nephew  some 
return  for  his  free  quarters.  These  affairs  were  his  great  bug-bear ; 
and  yet,  for  the  reason  we  have  stated,  he  went  through  the  distasteful 
routine  as  diligently  and  faithfully  as  if  the  eye  of  Astra^a  herself  had 
been  bent  upon  him  all  the  while,  although  he  inly  rejoiced  when  the 
hateful  task  was  for  the  time  completed. 

At  the  end  of  three  years,  however,  of  wanton  waste  and  extrava- 
gance probably  unparalleled  since  the  days  of  Nero  and  bis  Golden 
House  the  Captain  found  that  bis  office  as  steward  and  accountant 
was  soon  likely  to  become  a  sinecure.  .'Vmos  had  scattered  gold  *» 
prodigally  as  the  Eastern  princes  of  romance  in  their  bridal  proce** 
sioM— scattered  it  with  both  hands ;  and  now  the  enormous  wealth 


T&£  Txvelvt  Si^us, 


III 


amassed  m  bade  ind  cxtocted  b;  npiot  j,  aadN',  and  vsbj  was 

almost  exhsosted. 

It  «ss  a  NoTcmber  aftemoao,  and  ■faw^m^  not  "w'««g^  vJA 
fog.  was  &st  dofiiiig  m  opoa  OaiWlf  Sqaaie.    The  miuisteky 

genii,  hariog  placed  the  banquet  for  iht  night  ia  resdioess,  bad  tiken 
dteir  depaiture;  siknoe  reaped  is  the  boose;  and  CafXaio  Dcocb 
was  seated  in  his  deceased  brother's  stodjr,  with  Tarioos  saaD  pOcs  of ' 
docJceted  papers,  bills,  account  books,  and  memcvanda  on  the  tabLe 
before  him.  His  acute  mind  bad  just  socceeded  in  erolTiz^  order 
out  of  chaos,  and  he  had  condusiTriy  demonstrated  to  himself  that 
hi3  nephew — who  at  that  moment  was  wending  his  way  to  his  usual 
unsaroury  haunts — was  verily  and  Indeed,  in  a  pecuniary  senses 
"  upon  his  last  le^.** 

**  Another  monih,"  soliloquised  the  Captain,  with  a  grim  attempt 
at  humour,  "  at  the  present  rate  of  expenditure,  and  Amosi,  the  inc- 
ducible  surd,  the  decidedly  inational  quantity,  becomes,  in  defiance 
of  all  mathematical  law,  equivalent  to  zerO|  and  may  be  eliminated 
fcom  alt  monetary  calculali(xis." 

The  nearest  approach  to  a  smile  that  it  had  ever  Vnon-n  crossed 
the  Captain's  yellow  %*isage:.  It  was  not  caused  by  any  sense  of 
rejoicing  at  the  coming  discomfiture  of  Amos,  but  partly  by  his  own 
rather  laboured  witticism,  and  partly  by  the  consoling  thought  that 
the  hour  of  final  deliverance  from  the  Egyptian  bondage,  as  he  con- 
sidered it,  of  his  stewardship  was  fast  approaching. 

"  I  must  inform  Amos  this  very  night  of  the  state  of  his  aOairs," 
he  muttered.  "  It  would  be  mistaken  kindness  to  permit  him  to  live 
on  in  a  fool's  paradise.  If  there  be  any  good  in  the  fellow — which  I 
am  inclined  to  doubt — the  cold  douche  will  sober  him,  and  Ihc  few 
thousands  that  are  left  will  enable  him  to  make  a  fresh  start  And 
yet  how  to  administer  the  salutary  bath  ?  He  will  return  at  one  or 
two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  will  almost  certainly  refuse  to  leave 
his  bacchanalian  rout  to  listen  to  my  lectures.  I  shall  be  thankful 
when  I  am  well  rid  of  the  whole  business.  I  shall  lose  my  free 
quarters,  it  is  true,  but  then,  thanks  to  John  Company,  I  shall  always 
have  enough  for  a  glass  of  dry  sherry  and  a  grilled  chop,  and  Science 
is  a  mistress  who  does  not  scorn  a  garreu" 

Having  thus  delivered  himself,  the  Captain  arose  and  perambu- 
lated ttie  apartment  with  slow  measured  strides.  His  exterior  was 
calm  and  impassible  as  usual,  but  in  his  heart  he  did  not  relish  the 
coming  interview.  And  then  the  I^dy  Wv^yKtf,  already  responsible 
for  a  Parisian  romance,  began  to  put  matters  in  train  for  a  London  one. 

Pacing  up  and  down  in  the  fuliginous  twilight,  his  foot  came  into 


112 


The  Gentleman^  Magazine, 


rather  violent  collision  with  an  object  in  a  dark  comer  of  the  room 
which  he  had  never  happened  lo  notice  before.  It  was  a  quaint  old 
Indian  cabinet  of  camphor-wood,  on  whose  panels  the  native  artist 
had  depicted  the  incarnations  of  Vishnu.  The  housemaid  had  either 
scorned  or  overlooked  it  in  her  periodical  descents  upon  the  study  of 
the  late  Obadiah  Dench— to  which  the  Captain  seldom  and  Amos 
never  resorted— and  it  was  consequently  coaled  with  that  thin  layerof 
dust  which  is  such  an  abomination  in  the  eyes  of  careful  housewives. 

The  Captain  carelessly  glanced  at  this  piece  of  antique  furniture. 
*'  One  of  Obadiah's  Oriental  6nds  or  purchases,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"  By-the-by,  as  a  crash  appears  to  be  imminent,  I  may  as  well  see  if 
it  contains  any  private  papers  which  one  would  not  care  to  be  perused 
by  the  broker." 

The  cabinet  was  locked,  but  after  diligent  search  in  an  old- 
fashioned,  brass-bound  desk,  amongst  the  keys  of  the  late  proprietor 
Captain  Dench  discovered  one  that  fitted  the  lock.  Upon  opening 
the  disused  receptacle,  he  found  himself  confronted  by  a  double  tier 
of  small  drawers  having  an  arched  recess  between  them.  With  the 
contents  of  these  drawers  the  searcher  felt  inhnitelydisgusted;  they  were 
trivial  and  utterly  unworthy  the  attention  of  a  man  of  science  or  c\-en 
of  business— cowries,  a  few  mohurs,  other  Indian  coins  and  medaU 
of  less  ^'alue,  some  entomological  specimens,  fragments  of  ore,  and  other 
unconsidered  bric-A-brac-  He  was  on  the  point  of  closing  the  cabinet 
when  it  suddenly  occurred  to  him  that  there  was  a  considerable 
amount  of  space  not  accounted  for,  and  that  the  space  lay  at  the  back 
of  the  arched  recess  above  referred  to,  which  was  comparatively  shallow, 
while  the  drawers  on  either  side  traversed  nearly  the  entire  depth  of 
the  cabinet 

The  Captain  loved  the  solution  of  mechanical  problems  and 
puzzles  of  all  kinds  ;  he  was  quile  a  proficient  in  applied  mathe- 
matics, as  well  as  in  pure  ;  and  his  keen  faculties  were  promptly  set 
to  work,  with  the  result  that  the  Indian  cabinet  yielded  up  its  secret 
in  a  remarkably  short  space  of  time.  AVithin  the  hiding-place  whose 
existence  he  had  so  sagaciously  inferred  lay  a  scaled  letter,  and 
nothing  more.  Glancing  at  the  superscription — "  To  my  son, 
Amos" — he  had  no  diflSculty  in  recognising  his  brother's  clear  and 
formal  handwriting.  Methodically  replacing  the  drawer  and  closing 
the  cabinet,  he  drew  down  the  blind,  pulled  the  curtains  to,  lit  the 
lamp,  and,  wheeling  an  casy<hair  round  to  a  bright  fire,  sat  down  in 
the  light  and  warmth— no  mean  aids  lo  reflection — lo  consider  the 
situation,  with  the  letter  still  in  his  liand. 

He  was  a  man  who  had  never  troubled  liimself  with  mctaphpical. 


The  Twelve  Signs.  113 

ethical,  or  theological  subtleties— opon  wbkfa  be  bad  abn^  ^iEwf«f^ 
to  look  down  from  the  superior  scientific  frfatfonn — but  be  was  doC 
deficient  in  a  sense  of  bonoor  wbidi  bad  bitberto  been  ba  gnide  m 
all  matters  of  conscience ;  and  this  sense  of  honour  was  now  doing 
battle^  within  his  sool,  with  the  fonnidable  foe  Ezpediencf  ,  and 
rapidly  getting  wmsted  in  the  contest 

*'  In  the  abstract,  no  doabt,"  be  afgned,  as  be  hdd  the  letter 
between  bis  finger  and  thnmb  and  stared  tboi%|itlaIIy  at  the  wofdt 
"To  my  son,  Amos,"  ** it  is  a disbooomable  tfaing— gnhwoming «a 
officer  and  a  gentleman,  and  so  forth — to  open  and  read  a  letter 
addressed  to  another.  Bq^  on  the  other  band,  drcnmstanoes  not 
only  modify,  bat  alter  and  control  cases;.  Now,  bow  do  matteis 
stand  in  the  present  instance  ?  Amos  is  posMSsed  by  all  die  devOs 
of  Mary  Magdalene.  I  sboold  bare  00  hfsHation  in  calbog  bia 
non  eow^os  mentis.  I  am  his  next  friend  and  nearest  rebtire;  more- 
over, of  his  own  accord  be  has  placed  all  business  matters  in  my 
bands.  I  therefore  coodnde  that  it  is  within  my  rights — nay,  that  it 
is  my  boonden  duty— to  open  and  read  this  letter." 

Suitir^  the  action  to  the  word,  be  brdce  the  seal,  UkUl  the 
contents  from  the  envelope,  and  read  as  fi^Uows : 

"  Sow  Alios, — It  really  matters  but  little  whether  you  find  this 
letter,  whether  it  falls  into  other  bands,  ot  whether  it  remains  tm- 
discovered  sine  die.  I  leave  all  that  in  the  bands  of  Fate.  Should 
you,  however,  come  across  it,  please  not  to  act  upon  the  information 
it  contains  till  all  is  lost  Even  in  the  grave  I  would  hug  my  cherished 
secret  to  the  last 

"When  yon  have  wasted— as  I  foresee  yon  wiD— the  vast  patri- 
mony whidi  you  wiD  inherit  on  my  death,  then — but  not  till  then,  if 
you  r^ird  my  wishes — descend  secretly,  with  taper  and  matchrs,  in 
the  still  hours  of  the  night,  to  the  vaults  beneath  this  house:  Enter 
the  second  passage  to  tbe  left ;  in  the  centre  of  the  wall  that  faces 
you,  and  five  feet  from  the  ground,  you  will  discover,  fixed  in  what 
is  apparently  solid  masonry,  a  small  knob^  scarcely  distinguishable 
from  the  bead  of  an  iron  naiL  Press  it,  and  a  door  will  open,  dis 
dosii^  a  narrow  aperture  in  the  thickness  of  the  wall.  When  yoa 
have  entered  the  recess^  tbe  door  will  instantly  dose  upon  yon.  But 
let  not  this  alarm  you ;  for  on  your  return  yoa  can  readily  open  it 
ag^  by  means  of  another  knob  in  a  corresponding  posidon  on  the 
smooth  inside  surface.  Here  a  portal  of  polished  steel  will  confront 
yoa.  In  pbce  of  bdtsand  bars,  lock,  or  other  fintmina  yuo  wiU 
ace  twdve  bnsen  discs  engraved  in  strange  Indian  &diioa  with  tfa*. 


114 


The  GenilefHans  Alagazine^ 


twelve  zodiacal  signs,  and  arranged  in  the  form  of  a  qulocimx.  You 
will  find,  moreover,  that  these  discs  are  inserted  in  an  oblong 
metal  plate  traversed  by  a  network  of  grooves,  along  which  they  can 
be  easily  moved  in  a  perpendicular  or  lateral  direction.  They  may 
thus  be  transposed  at  will,  and  are,  of  course,  susceptible  of  an 
immense  number  of  different  combinations.  Unless,  however,  they 
are  arranged  according  to  the  schema  which  I  enclose  herewith,  no 
force  short  of  dynamite  can  open  the  door.  This  ingenious  con- 
tri^-ance  was  the  gift  of  a  Fakir  to  whom  I  once  rendered  a  service 
which  cost  mc  nothing.  He  assigned  to  it  certain  magic  virtues; 
but  I  am  not  a  believer  in  magic — unless  it  be  the  natural  magic  of 
tlie  purse.  When  the  figures  have  been  duly  placed  in  the  proper 
position,  the  portal  will  fly  open,  and  you  will  gain  admittance  to  the 
shrine  where  my  soul  worshipped— a  temple  of  Plutus  indeed.  You 
will  find  wealth,  compared  with  which  what  you  inherited  &om  me 
was  a  mere  pittance.  Use  or  abuse  it.  Whichever  course  you  may 
elect,  I  do  not  fancy  that  it  will  trouble  my  repose.  I  have  read 
your  character,  and  know  you  to  be  a  monster  and  a  fool,  with 
potentialities  for  evil,  limited  only  by  the  narrow  scope  of  your 
intellect  and  lack  of  opportunity,  which  will  develop  in  time,  and 
most  hkely  lead  to  disastrous  results,  I  am  not  such  a  lover  of 
society,  of  my  kind,  that  I  should  greatly  care.  I  might,  it  is  true, 
have  bequeathed  these  riches  to  hospitals,  to  heathen  missions,  or  to 
be  applied  to  the  reduction  of  the  national  debt ;  but  then  the  world 
and  its  charitable  institutions  are  vile  shams — as  vUe  as  you  are ;  and 
you,  such  as  you  are,  are  at  least  my  fiesh  and  blood.  Of  the  various 
claimants,  then,  you  have  the  best  right  to  my  treasure. 

"  I  had  almost  omitted  to  say  that  when  you  wish  to  leave  the 
secret  chamber — the  door  of  which,  like  that  leading  from  the  vault, 
will  automatically  dose  when  you  enter — you  will  find  a  similar 
arrangement  of  brazen  discs  within,  which  must  be  placed  according 
to  the  schema  before  you  can  obtain  egress. 

•'  Obadiah  Dench." 


It  seemed  as  though  Fate  bad  mockingly  ordained  that  this 
evening,  for  the  first  time  in  the  course  of  his  life,  Captain  Dcnch 
should  be  called  upon  to  face  and  solve  moral  rather  than  mathematical 
problems,  and  questions  in  casuistry  rather  than  calculus.  The 
perusal  of  this  cynical  and  most  amazing  letter,  discovered  \yy  the 
merest  chance,  threw  the  scientist  off  his  balance— quite  stag- 
gered him.  What  should  he  do?  This  was  a  harder  nut  to 
cmck  than  tlic  question  of  opening  the  letter  hod  been.    After  long 


The  Twelve  Signs* 


i»5 


I  amdous  deliberation  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  would 
be  best,  in  the  fint  place,  to  test  the  genuineness  of  the  communi- 
cation, which,  after  all,  might  be  only  a  practical  joke — huge  and 
grim— and  shape  his  future  action  according  to  the  result. 

The  two  old  servants  were  generally  in  bed  by  ten  o'clock — 
AiDOs  admitting  himself  and  his  companions  in  the  early  morning 
hours  with  a  latchkey — so  that  there  would  be  ample  time  and  oppor- 
tunity for  making  an  unobserved  descent  into  the  subterranean  regions 
before  the  return  of  lus  nephew.     He  would  wait  till  eleven  o'clock. 

Never  did  lover  count  with  greater  eagerness  and  impatience 
the  ** fly-slow"  hours  than  did  the  gaunt  old  Anglo-Indian  the 
moments  intervening  between  six  and  eleven  o'clock.  Barely  had 
the  latter  hour  chimed  when  he  arose,  proN-ided  himself  with  lamp 
and  matches,  and,  not  forgetting  the  letter  and  the  precious  schema, 
made  his  way  noiselessly  to  the  vaults.  Here  be  found  that  all 
tallied  with  the  circumstantial  instructions  given  by  tlvc  dead  roan, 
which  he  unhesitatingly  followed  till  he  stood  within  the  narrow  cell, 
facing  the  steel  portal. 

As  he  was  about  to  lift,  as  it  were,  the  last  veil  of  the  mystery, 
an  unwonted  tremor  pervaded  his  whole  being.  He  hesitated. 
AV'as  his  action  wise?  What  should  he  see  behind  that  barrier? 
What  were  the  strange  experiences  which  lay  literally  within  arm's 
length  of  him  ?  He  speculated— men  will  do  so  at  the  most 
imlikely  times — as  a  suicide  might  speculate  who,  with  the  barrel 
of  a  pistol  pressed  close  to  the  roof  of  his  mouth,  wonders  what 
sensation  will  succeed  the  shock  and  thunder  of  the  discharge  when 
he  has  pressed  the  trigger.  Death  might  lurk  behind  the  door. 
He  might  be  caught,  on  entering,  in  a  man-trap  which  would  never 
release  its  fatal  hold.  He  might  be  cast  headlong  down  some  deep 
and  noisome  welL  A  skeleton  might  leap  forth  and  clasp  him  in  its 
bony  arms.  Again,  there  might  be  only  darkness  and  a  great  void, 
which  incoherent  and  conflicting  surmises  afforded  lamentable  proof 
cf  two  facts — that  the  calm  of  the  self-contained  savant  had  given 
place  to  the  fever,  fear,  and  sujierstition  of  the  treasure- seeker,  and 
that  Captain  Dcnch  had  no  very  great  faith  in  the  amiable  intentions 
of  his  deceased  brother  Obadiah. 

**  I  must  make  the  plunge/'  he  murmured  at  last,  "  even  though 
the  issue  be  as  uncertain  as  that  of  *  Hobbes's  last  voyage.'" 

Consulting  the  schema,  and  nerving  himself  for  the  worst,  he 
placed  the  figures  in  position,  and  straigliiway  the  door  flew  open- 
No  ;  Obadiah  had  not  lied,  notwithstanding  his  brother's  strong 
doubts  as  to  his  veracity.     Far  from  lying  or  exaggCT^VkVx^>as.\\:L\ 


ii6 


The  GentUmans  Magazine, 


used  such  tame  and  prosaic  language  that  the  Captain  was  quite 
unprepared  for  the  apocalypse  of  splendour  that  almost  blinded  his 
eyes.  It  was  evident  that  the  agent  of  the  imperious  and  un- 
scrupulous  lord  of  Daylesford  had  not  neglected  to  feather  his  own 
nest  whilst  engaged  in  the  task  of  intimidating  the  unhappy  Begums  of 
Oude ;  and  it  was  equally  evident  that  the  mj-sterious  Indian  visitors 
at  Charlotte  Square  had  not  come  empty-handed. 

The  Captain  stood  on  the  threshold  of  a  small  square  chamber 
of  considerable  altitude,  whose  walls,  completely  covered  with  plates 
and  laminae  of  solid  burnished  gold,  fla.shed  back  the  rays  of  the 
lamp  which  he  bore.  Along  each  side  of  the  apartment  were 
disposed  in  regular  order  large  vases  of  porphyry,  malachite,  jade, 
and  agate,  wherein  were  piled  pyramidically  heaps  of  precious  stones 
— diamonds,  rubies,  pigeon's-blood  and  balas,  emeralds,  amethysts, 
topazes,  sapphires,  cat's-eyes,  and,  in  short,  elect  and  priceless 
specimens  of  all  known  gems,  some  cut  and  polished,  oUiers  in  the 
rough.  In  the  centre— enthroned,  as  it  were,  upon  an  aitar  of  purest 
gold— lay  the  monarch  of  this  chamber  of  treasure,  the  divinity  to 
whom  no  doubt  Obadiah  lunch's  orisons  were  addressed— a  diamond 
which  might  have  vied  with  and  surpassed  the  great  Braganza, 
larger  than  a  hen's  egg  of  the  average  size,  and  probably  weighing 
close  upon  2,000  carats. 

As  we  have  seen.  Captain  Dench's  philosophical  equanimity  had 
sustained  many  a  rude  shock  during  the  course  of  a  fateful  evening  j 
it  now  finally  gave  way,  and  he  felt  inclined,  treading  in  his  brother's 
footsteps,  to  fall  down  und  worship  before  this  superb  and  radiant 
embodiment  of  wealth  and  the  power  that  wealth  gives. 

It  is  a  curious  psychological  fact  and  mystery  that  riches  oflen 
possess  the  greatest  attraction  for  those  who  are  unable  to  enjoy,  or 
even  use  them.  Our  old  student  was  a  sad  exemplification  of  this 
truth.  Gloating  over  the  gold  and  gems,  attempting  to  assess  their 
value,  then  giving  up  the  hopeless  task,  an  hour  in  the  subterranean 
chamber  passed  for  him  like  one  moment. 

It  was  now  time  for  hira  to  return  to  the  upper  atr,  and  consider 
what  course  he  should  adopt  with  reference  to  Amos  and  the 
treasure,  whose  existence  he  had  proved  to  be  a  dazeling  fact. 

He  did  not  regain  his  apartments  till  somewhat  p.ist  midnight, 
but  before  an  hour  had  elapsed  his  fertile  mind  had  bit  upon  and 
elaborated  a  plan  of  campaign.  Just  then,  to  his  great  surprise,  he 
heard  the  lumbering  footsteps  of  Amos  in  the  hall. 

*'  What  can  have  happened  ?  "  he  exclaimed,  "  Amos  back  a 
^ood  hour  or  more  before  bis  usual  time,  aiMl  alone  ! " 


The  Twelve  Signs. 


IIL 


ThB  TtttLlTE  SiCXS. 

"  Pardon  me  for  being  peraooal,  Amos,  bat  reaUy  you  look  u  if 
you  had  just  seen  a  ghost" 

"  Oh,  bother  ghosts  ! "  savagely  retorted  the  young  man.  "  I 
BQppose  a  fellow  may  be  seedy  occasionaUy." 

At  the  best  of  times,  as  we  hare  intimated,  Amos  Dench  was  fas 
UoxSi  being  handsome  or  attractive  ;  now  be  was  positively  hideous, 
for  his  chocolate  visage  was  mottled  with  violet  patches,  like  the 
disconsolate  lover  in  Horace,  his  goggle  eyes  had  a  fishy  glaxe,  and 
his  long  under-lip  hung  like  a  door  loose  on  its  binges. 

Uncle  Joel,  who  had  met  his  nephew  in  the  hall  and  followed 
him  LDto  the  dining-room,  was  too  much  accustomed  to  his  amenities 
to  feel  surprised  at  his  rudeness  on  the  present  occasion.  AVhat  did 
surprise  him  was  the  early  return  of  Amos,  sober,  unaccompanied 
by  his  usual  rabble  rout,  and  looking  the  picture  of  the  most  abject 
terror. 

He  would  have  been  stilt  more  surprised  had  he  known  the 
catisc  of  his  hopeful  nephew's  alarm.  like  most  blusterers  and 
profligates,  Amos  Dench  was  a  veritable  Bob  Acres — a  man  of  no 
moral,  and  very  shaky  physical,  courage,  and  he  bad  really  had  a 
tremendous  fright  that  night — seen  a  ghost,  or  something  worae.  It 
had  chanced  in  this  wise.  Passing  down  Church  Street,  Soho — then 
a  gloomy  haunt  of  poverty  and  vice,*horae  and  foreign,  of  Anarchists 
and  painted  women — he  had  been  suddenly  met  face  to  £ice  by  an 
old  man,  below  the  middle  height,  but  thick-set  and  burly,  wearing  a 
long  blade  cloak  and  low,  broad  felt  hat.  His  visage  was  har^ry, 
olfish,  and  ghastly,  and  his  lurid  eyes  flamed  into  those  of  Amos 
lilh  a  fierce  and  irresistible  mastery.  He  had  hoarsely  whispered 
into  the  young  man's  ear  "Come  with  me,"  and  at  the  same  time 
with  some  violence  clapped  his  hand  upon  his  shoulder.  Oh,  that 
irm  !  that  grip  !  When  the  hand  descended,  it  seemed  to  Amos  as 
if  a  thick  iron  bar  had  forcibly  struck  him  ;  when  it  rested  upon 
him,  the  chill  as  of  an  Arctic  iceberg  had  tingled  through  his  being, 
quickly  succeeded  by  such  intolerable  heat  as  only  the  furnace  of 
Geherma  could  generate.  Straightway  what  manhood  ho  possessed 
bad  forsaken  him.  With  womanish  tears  he  had  wailed,  *'Oh,  spare 
me  I  spare  me  I "  and  the  terrible  lips,  writhing  in  hellish  sneer,  had 

Three' 


Ii8 


The  Geniiemans  Magazine, 


come  for  you."  With  these  words  he  had  vamsbed  from  the  sordid 
circle  of  the  lamplight. 

After  this  rtncontre  the  young  geatlcman  had  felt  in  no  mood 
for  Wtissail  or  wassailers.  Cold,  trembling,  with  chattering  teeth,  and 
a  strange  sinking  feeling  at  the  heart,  he  had  hied  him  home  at 
once,  wearing  the  hang-dog  aspect  which  had  elicited  his  uncle's 
remark. 

Once  within  the  precincts  of  his  Bloomsbury  mansion,  however^ 
he  began  to  breathe  more  freely.  Paying  no  further  attention  to 
Captain  Dench,  he  filled  a  tumbler  with  brandy,  and  drained  it  at 
a  gulp. 

"  I  don't  remember  ever  feeling  so  much  out  of  sorts,"  he  said 
in  a  tone  bet%reen  a  growl  and  a  whine.  "  I  think  I  shall  be  off  to 
Led." 

"  Have  some  more  brandy." 

Nothing  loath,  Amos  swallowed  another  glassful  of  the  raw 
spirit.  *'  Dutch  courage  !  Dutch  courage ! "  he  muttered.  "  Any- 
how, it  is  better  than  a  blue  funk." 

The  Captain  watched  his  nephew  narrowly,  and  saw  with  satis- 
faction that,  under  the  potent  influence  of  the  alcohol,  he  was  rapidly 
recovering  from  his  mysterious  quandary.  He  was  a  man  of  iron 
tenacity  of  purpose ;  he  had  arranged  all  his  phms,  and  he  was 
quite  determined  at  all  hazards  to  carrj*  them  out  that  very  night. 

"  \  am  glad  you  seem  better,  Amos,"  he  said,  "for  I  have  some 
important  matters  to  communicate  to  you.  Sit  down,  and  let  us 
proceed  to  business." 

"Business  1  oh,  hang  it  all !  not  tonight.  Wait  till  I  have  slept 
and  had  some  breakfast." 

"  Impossible ! "  was  the  Captain's  curt  and  cool  rejoinder ;  *'  you 
must  hear  all  now." 

A  currish  nature  instmctively  obeys  a  firm  hand^  and  the  old 
oHicer  knew  his  man. 

*'AII  right" — with  an  air  of  sullen  resignation.  "I  don*t  suppose 
I  could  sleep,  if  I  tried.     Only,  I  say,  cut  it  as  short  as  you  can." 

" /ffi/n/A'/j,"  began  his  uncle,  in  a  raatteroffacl  tone,  "  I  regret  to 
inform  you  that  you  are  ruined — or,  rather,  have  ruined  yourself," 

"  Ruined?  You  don't  mean  it  I "  yelled  Amos,  starting  up  and 
fixing  a  glassy  eye  of  horror  upon  his  uncle. 

»  Oh  yes  I  do,  though,"  retorted  the  other.  •'  Perhaps,  however, 
it  would  be  more  correct  to  say  that  you  are  trembling  on  the  verge 
of  ruin.  A  couple  of  thousands  still  remain,  but  you  will  get 
llirough  them  in  a  month's  time." 


The  Twelve  Sipts. 


119 


Upon  which  unexpected  and  astounding  intelligence  the  wretched 
prodigal  bowed  hU  head  in  his  hands  upon  the  table,  and  for  the 
second  time  that  night  began  to  weep— this  time  maudlin  tears. 

His  uncle  regarded  the  sordid  picture  of  cowardly  and  unedifying 
humiliation  with  a  look  of  contempt  and  disgust  for  a  moment. 
Then,  crossing  to  him,  he  laid  his  hand  lightly  on  his  shoulder. 

He  certainly  had  not  calculated  upon  tlic  result  Amos,  to 
whom  the  sudden  touch  recalled  his  recent  Soho  adventure,  bounded 
to  his  feet  with  a  wild  scream,  as  though  he  had  received  a  powerful 
dcctric  shock. 

Noticing  the  look  of  horror  and  alarm  in  his  nephew's  face,  but 
misinterpreting  the  cause,  Cjptain  Dench  made  haste  to  reassure 
him.  "  Be  a  man,  Amos,"  be  said ;  "  things  may  not  be  as  bad  as 
you  fancy." 

"But— but,"  whimpered  the  other,  whom  shame  for  his  own 
cowardice  withheld  from  enlightening  his  uncle,  "  you  say  that  I  am 
ruined  ;  and  you  ought  to  know,  for  you  have  kept  the  accounts." 

"  That  is  so,"  rejoined  his  uncle  coolly.  "  And  yet  there  may 
be  a  door  of  hope,  for  all  that  •  ,  .  And  now  pull  yourself  together^ 
if  yon  can,  and  give  me  your  best  attention." 

For  answer  Amos,  who  had  resumed  his  seat  and  his  despondent 
attitude,  raised  his  sodden  face  and  nodded. 

'*  I  have  made  a  strange  discovery,"  began  the  Captain. 

"  Is  it  anything  like  '  A  New  Way  to  Pay  Old  Debts '  ?  "  sneered 
Amos,  who  happened  to  remember  the  title  of  Massiiigcr's  play^ 
irith  a  sickly  attempt  at  a  witticism. 

••That  is  precisely  what  it  is." 

"I^t  us  hear  the  wonderful  prescription,  then.  It  has  certainly 
turned  up  in  the  nick  of  time." 

"  Presently.  You  must  hear  what  I  have  to  say  first.  Supposing 
that  the  discovery  which  I  have  made  should  lead  to  your  obtaining 
ft  fortune  compared  with  which  that  which  you  have  just  squandered 
would  be  but  a  bagatelle,  would  you  be  willing  to  give  me  a  brief 
written  agreement  undertaking  to  share  equally  with  me  the  wealth 
which  I  should  be  instrumental  in  placing  in  your  hands,  and, 
furtlierraote,  to  pledge  me  your  word  of  honour  that  you  will  turn 
aver  a  new  leaf  for  the  future  ?  The  conditions  are  not  hard.  I 
I  a  childless  old  man,  and  my  portion  of  the  treasure-trove  would 
ultimately  revert  to  you  ;  and  the  second  stipulation  is  manifestly  in 
your  own  interest  Do  not  speak  at  once  ;  take  time  for  reflection. 
Should  you  decline  my  terms,  I  keep  my  discovery  to  ni>'sclf." 

This  stupendous  announcement,  revealing  much  and  hinting  at 


120 


The  GentUmans  Magazine, 


still  mote^  completely  sobered  Amos,  upon  whom  the  pint  of  brandy 
which  he  had  imbibed  was  beginning  to  lake  efTect.  Once  more  he 
was  poor  and  needy ;  once  more  an  unkind  fate  had  called  upon 
him  to  deal  with  an  old  curmudgeon  who  had  power  to  give  or 
to  withhold ;  it  was  time  to  drop  bluster,  to  alter  his  tactics,  and 
slink  back  to  the  rdU  which  he  had  played  with  such  signal 
success  in  his  father's  lifetime  —  tlut  of  a  false,  supple,  cimging 
Tarlufie. 

"  Dear  Uncle  Joel,"  he  exclaimed,  with  much  apparent  enthu- 
siasm and  affection,  "you  are  my  good  genius.  I  accept — thankfully 
accept — your  conditions.  Half  of  the  fortune  is  too  much ;  the  third 
part  will  be  enough  for  me.  I  will  give  you  the  written  agreement. 
As  for  turning  over  a  new  leaf,  I  faithfully  promise  you  that  I  will. 
In  fact,  I  have  got  quite  sick  of  that  sort  of  thing." 

"Methinks  this  gentleman  dolh  protest  too  much,"  said  the 
Captain  to  himself.  Then  aloud :  "  I  am  glad  that  you  take  such 
a  sensible  view  of  things.  You  might  just  let  me  have  the  very 
briefest  memorandum.  I  shall  be  quite  satisfied  with  an  equal 
share." 

Procuring  writing  materials,  Amos  at  once  complied  with  his 
uncle's  request,  and  handed  him  the  document,  which  that  gentle- 
man carefully  perused,  folded,  and  placed  in  his  breast  pocket  along 
with  Obadiah's  letter  and  the  schema  of  the  Twelve  Signs. 

"And  now,  sir,"  said  our  young  man,  "I  am  most  anxious  to 
hear  the  story  of  your  lucky  find." 

The  Captain,  whose  new  code  of  ethics  did  not  condemn  a 
slight  and  necessary  supprcssh  vcri^  proceeded  to  relate  how  he  had 
found  in  a  secret  receptacle  in  the  Indian  cabinet  a  brief  statement, 
in  Obadiah  Dench's  liandwriting,  indicating  tlie  existence  of  an 
immense  treasure  in  the  vaults  beneath  the  mansion,  and  giving  the 
necessary  directions  for  obtaining  access  to  it.  "  This,"  he  said, 
producing  the  schema  and  showing  it  to  Amos,  who  glanced  at  it 
with  a  mystified  air,  "  is  the  key  to  the  secret." 

Replacing  the  document  in  his  pocket,  the  Captain  continued : 
*'  At  first  I  could  scarcely  credit  the  evidence  of  my  own  senses  j 
my  next  thought  was  that  your  father  could  not  have  been  in  his  senses 
when  he  penned  the  statement.  Nevertheless  I  deemed  it  best,  on 
the  whole,  to  investigate  the  matter.  The  result,  I  confess,  surpassed 
my  wildest  imaginations.  The  scene  I  beheld  reminded  me  of  those 
subterranean  palaces  of  the  genii  descrilx:d  in  your  favourite  book, 
'  The  Arabian  Nights,' " 

'Ilie  dull  e)*ea  of  Amos  shone  for  a  moment  wiuj  tnc  light  of 


The  Twelve  Signs.  121 

cupidity.     **  Dear  uncle,"  he  cried,  "  will  70U  be  my  guide  without 
further  delay  to  this  home  of  enchantment  7  " 

"Wait  here,  then.  I  shall  be  with  you  in  a  moment  I  want  to 
see  that  all  is  quiet  upstairs." 

"Gold,"  says  the  mocking  fiend  Mephistopbeles,  "rules  the 
world  "j  it  certainly  changes  the  character  of  men.  Its  sunny 
gleam,  supplemented  by  the  more  potent  radiance  of  the  great 
diamond  and  its  attendant  gems,  had  turned  the  dreamy,  speculative 
Archimedes  whom,  at  the  commencement  of  this  narratircv  we 
contemplated  deep  in  his  mathematical  problems^  into  a  not  over- 
scrupulous man  of  action  and  resource. 

"  I  don't  quite  like  the  expression  in  that  fellow's  Cace,"  mused 
the  Captain  when  he  had  gain^l  the  solitude  of  his  bedroom.  "  He 
looks  as  if  he  had  met  the  deviL" 

He  drew  Obadiah's  letter  from  his  pocket,  threw  it  into  the  fire, 
and  watched  it  till  it  was  reduced  to  ashes.  He  next  unlocked  a 
bureau,  and  deposited  therein  the  schema  together  with  the  brief 
agreement  which  Amos  had  just  written  out 

"  My  brother's  letter  to  Amos,"  he  thought,  "  was  decidedly  de 
trop  -J  I  am  not  likely  to  forget  the  collocation  of  the  signs  "—the 
Captain  had  the  memory  of  a  Magliabechi — "and  these  documents 
will  be  just  as  well  here  for  the  present" 

Taking  a  neat  little  revolver  from  the  mantel,  and  thrusting  it  into 
his  bosom,  he  hurried  downstairs  and  rejoined  Amos,  who  was 
walking  up  and  down  impatiently,  while  his  unprepossessing  coun- 
tenance was  working  with  excitement 

"  Come  on,  Uncle  Joel,"  he  gasped. 

It  was  nearly  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  when  the  two  men 
stealthily  descended  to  the  vaults  beneath  the  old  mansion.  On 
their  way  the  Captain  explained  to  his  nephew  in  low  tones  the 
important  part  which  the  twelve  zodiacal  signs  played  as  guardians  of 
the  treasure. 

"The  cabalistic  figures  on  the  paper  you  showed  me  are  the 
*  Open  Sesame  *  of  this  wonderful  cave  ?  "  questioned  Amos  carelessly. 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  other ;  "  that  is  the  key  to  the  arrangement  of 
the  brazen  discs  of  which  I  told  you — the  only  means  of  gaining 
access  to  or  egress  from  the  secret  chamber." 

They  had  now  reached  the  first  stage  in  their  adventure,  and  the 
Captain  directed  the  attention  of  bis  companion  to  the  small  knob  in 
the  wall. 

The  secret  door  yielded  to  the  pressure  of  the  spring,  noiselessly 
closing  again  when  they  had  stepped  into  the  cavity. 

VOL.  cczcL    Na  2048.  ^ 


123  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

Amos,  holding  the  candlestick  aloft  with  trembling  hand,  now 
saw  the  steel  barrier  and  the  Twelve  Signs.  These,  by  virtue  of  a 
curious  mechanism,  lapsed  back  into  confusion  on  each  occasion 
simultaneously  with  the  closure  of  the  door,  so  that  it  was  now 
necessary  for  the  Cnptain  to  arrange  them  once  more  in  the  order  of 
the  schema. 

"Don't  you  want  to  refer  to  the  paper?"  anxiously  inquired 
Anios.     "  You  have  it  in  your  pocket." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  rejoined  his  unde,  "but  I  think  I  can  trust  to 
memory." 

With  steady  hand  he  carefully  adjusted  the  signs,  and  the  door 
admitted  them,  shutting  to  spontaneously  when  they  had  entered, 
while  the  brazen  discs  within  immediately  formed  a  new  combination. 
The  candlestick  would  h.ivc  dropped  from  the  nerveless  grasp  of 
Amos  if  the  Captain  had  not  promptly  seized  it,  exclaiming,  "Steady, 
man  !  it  would  never  do  to  be  left  in  darkness  here.  I  have  forgotten 
Jiiatchcs,  and  I  don't  suppose  you  have  any." 

Amos,  in  truth,  seemed  to  have  lost  the  power  of  speech  and 
■niolion.  He  could  only  gaze  open-mouthed  at  the  massive  glittering 
red  gold  thai  lined  the  chamber,  at  the  costly  urns  and  their  still  more 
•costly  burden,  and  the  prismatic  scintillations  of  Uie  great  diamond. 
"  This  is  an  Aladdin's  Cave  indeed,"  he  whispered  at  last.  *'  Here 
is  wealth  sufficient  to  buy  up  an  Empire." 

"Yes,  boy,"  returned  Captain  Dench,  with  a  strange  weird  light 
of  enthusiasm  on  his  cadaverous  face;  "and  it  is  all  yours  and  mine. 
I  shall  probably  not  need  it  long  j  but  while  I  Hve,  it  will  be  the  one 
pleasure  of  my  existence  to  come  down  here  occasionally  to  bathe  in 
the  glorious  light  of  that  diamond,  (o  plunge  my  hands  in  yonder 
vases  and  let  the  rubies  and  sapphires  ripple  like  bmbcnt  fire  through 
my  fingers." 

As  he  spoke,  gold  worked  another  fatal  metamorphosis.  The 
spendthrift  became  a  raiser.  He  wanted  all  for  himself — all— and 
now.  He  could  not  share  it,  and  he  could  not  wait.  How  tantalis- 
ing to  think  that  one  old  and  feeble  life  alone  barred  him  from  the 
sole,  absolute,  and  undisputed  possession  of  riches  such  as  Croesus 
had  never  dreamt  of  1 

And  then  the  demon  of  murder,  who  is  twin-brother  and  constant 
associate  of  the  demon  of  greed,  whispered  :  *'  That  barrier  must 
be  removed.  You  have  the  means  wherewithal  to  do  so— the 
revolver  in  your  pocket,  the  companion  of  your  nightly  prowlings. 
You  were  too  great  a  craven  a  few  hours  ago  to  turn  it  against  the  old 
man  of  Soho ;  use  it  now." 


Tfie  Twelve  Signs, 


123 


The  Tceble,  guilly,  sodden,  polluted  soul  heard,  and  did  not, 
could  not,  resist  the  inner  voice  of  ihe  tempter. 

"  My  dear  uncle,"  he  whispered,  as  if  afraid  to  trust  his  own 
voice,  "  do  you  not  detect  a  slight  flaw  in  the  lower  surface  of  this 
splendid  diamond?" 

"  Surely  not,"  said  the  old  man,  stooping  down  to  scrutinise  the 
jewel,  while  he  placed  the  candlestick  on  the  ground  between  two 
vases. 

He  never  rose  again,  for  the  next  instant  a  bullet  from  Ins 
nephew's  revolver  passed  through  his  brain,  and  he  fell  forw-ard,  dead, 
across  the  golden  altar. 

For  the  moment  Amos  did  not  trouble  himself  about  the  body. 
He  danced  about  like  a  maniac ;  he  tossed  the  great  diamond  up  in 
the  air  and  caught  it  again;  he  buried  his  hands  deep  in  the  urns, 
and  anon  suffered  the  sparkling  gems  to  flow  in  streams  of  coloured 
light  through  his  fingers. 

'*  All  mine  !  all  mine  ! "  he  cried,  in  delirious  ecstasy. 

Time  flew  rapidly  by  ;  the  candle  was  burning  low,  and  he 
knew  the  servants  rose  at  six-  He  must  for  the  present  leave  the 
enchanted  chamber ;  the  disposal  of  the  body  could  await  his 
convenience. 

The  schema !  Faugh !  he  must  touch  the  corpse.  He  must 
take  the  paper  from  the  breast  pocket,  where  he  saw  his  uncle  place 
it.  He  turned  the  body  over  on  its  face,  and  put  his  hands  into 
the  pocket  He  encountered  somctliing  smooth,  hard,  and  cold- 
It  was  the  barrel  of  a  revolver.  There  was  no  paper — no  other 
contents. 

There  was  now  but  an  inch  of  candle  left. 

With  the  howl  of  a  wild  beast  the  murderer  threw  himself  on 
the  meagre  corpse  of  his  victim,  staring  glassily  up  at  him  with 
yellow  grin.  He  frantically  rifled  all  the  dead  man's  pockets.  There 
was  no  schema  to  be  found. 

The  door  I  the  Twelve  Signs  ! 

His  last  hope  was  that  by  some  lucky  chance  he  might  hit  upon 
the  right  arrangement  before  the  light  failed  him.  He  tried  combi- 
nation after  combination — all  in  vain. 

And  then,  in  the  midst  of  his  experiments,  the  flame  of  the 
candle  leaped  tip  and  expired.  He  was  in  darkness,  shut  oC  for 
ever  from  the  living,  without  hope  of  release — alone  with  his  gold, 
his  gems,  his  murdered  man  \ 

Wth  an  awful  shriek  of  despair  he  launched  himself  against  the 
door  of  steel    The  words  of  his  father's  letter— that  letter  which  he 


■i^H^^^[^B 

The  GentkmatiS  Magazine.                    '-^^ 

seen — were  no  itlle  boost  \  no  force  short  of  dynamite 
lil  against  it. 

blasphemies,   prayers,  rushed  from  his  foaming  lips  in 
luence*     Then  came  oblivion  for  awhile ;  but  then  the 
ening. 

to  his  appointmentjthe  old  man  of  Soho  came  for  Amos 
lidnight  On  the  third  day, 

L' Envoi* 

Iter  the  kpse  of  many  years,  chance  led  to  the  discovery- 
it  vault,  and  the  two  skeletons  were  found  lying  ihereia 
in  regal  state,  sunounded  by  gold  and  precious  stones, 
k  Holmes  of  the  period,  with  the  aid  of  the  schema, 
jid  documents  belonging  to  the  Dench  family,  togetlier 
[circumstantial    evidence   afforded  by   the   subterranean 
id  its  grisly  occupants,  pieced   together  inductively  an 
leory  respecting  the  tragedy  of  the  two  men  whose  sudden 
0U3  disappearance  had  startled  the  contemporaiy  world 

^ory  has  furnished  the  present  writer  with  material  for  the 

ON  THE  MONKS'  ISLAND. 


THE  low,  mellow  tones  of  a  bell  tolling  solemnly  half  awakened 
me.  I  began  to  wonder  feebly  where  I  was  ;  but  instead  of 
trying  to  solre  the  question,  I  listened  dreamily  to  the  two  soundt 
nhich  of  all  others  are  dear  to  me — the  slow  ringing  of  a  dccptoncd 
bell,  and  tlie  lapping  of  the  sea  on  the  rocks. 

Where  was  I  ?  A  moonbeam  fell  across  my  face,  and  by  its 
iij^ht  I  distinguished  the  canvas  of  our  tent.  Such  a  tent  it  was,  too  I 
A  yard  from  some  old  ship  had  been  lashed  firmly  to  a  tree  ;  over 
this  a  sail  was  thrown,  whose  ends  were  roughly  secured  to  the 
ground  with  improvised  tent-pegs.  The  door  of  the  tent— if  ono 
may  make  use  of  such  an  expression— consisted  of  an  old  sheet  much, 
but  neatly,  patched.  I  could  see  the  outline  of  the  patches  in  the 
moonlight.  Lulled  to  rest  by  the  lap-lapping  of  the  waves  and  the 
throbbing  of  the  bell  I  fell  asleep  again  without  having  distinctly 
decided  where  I  was.  I  was  in  Hlysium,  at  any  rate,  and  was  not 
that  enough  7 

Next  morning  I  was  awakened  in  real  earnest,  not  by  pale,  blue 
moonlight,  but  by  the  brilliant  sunshine  of  an  August  morning,  and 
realised  that  I  was  on  the  island  of  St.  Honorat,  oft  Cannes. 
On  throwing  back  the  curtain  a  scene  fit  for  fairyland  met  my  gaze. 
Southward,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  the  broad  expanse  of  tlie 
blue  Mediterranean  sparkled  and  danced  in  the  sunlight.  To  our 
left  was  the  well-wooded  island  of  St.  Marguerite,  whose  fort  is 
celebrated  as  being  one  of  the  residences  of  the  unfortunate  wearer 
of  the  Iron  Mask.  It  was  in  this  same  fort  that  Bazainc  was 
imprisoned.  His  escape  thence  was  long  planned  for  by  liis  friends, 
and,  as  some  think,  not  regretted  by  the  French  Government.  The 
lact  that  the  boat  on  wliich  he  sailed  away  was  getting  up  steam  off 
tbe  island  the  day  before  his  flight,  in  full  view  of  his  gaolers,  seems 
to  support  this  supposition. 

Behind  us  lay  the  fairest  of  all  the  lovely  towns  of  the  Riviera— 
Canites.    As  we  looked  at  its  sandy  shore,  its  white  villas,  and  a,t 


The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

the  old  town  climbing  up  the  bill  on  the  Idl,  with  the  blue  mountains 
of  the  Est^rel  in  the  distance,  we  agreed  that  wc  had  never  seen  a 
more  charming  picture. 

After  a  swim  in  the  sea,  which  is  so  clear  that  yoa  can  distinguish 
the  pebbles  and  shells  at  the  bottom  through  many  feet  of  water,  we 
came  back  to  our  tent,  guided  thither  by  a  refreshing  odour  of  coffee. 
We  found  a  sailor's  wife,  who  was  to  be  our  caterer,  cook,  house- 
maid and  messenger  all  in  one,  grinding  the  fragrant  berries  in  her 
little  hand-mill,  talking  the  while  to  her  wee  son,  who  had,  as  he 
anon  informed  us  with  great  dignity,  lately  attained  the  age  of  four. 
Our  factotum  had  a  sweet  face,  a  delicate  brunette  skin,  and  dark 
hair  brushed  back  in  gentle  waves  from  the  forehead.  Her  e)*es,  as 
they  lit  up  to  greet  us,  were  of  that  liquid  yet  fiery  t)'pe  which  is  so 
characteristic  of  the  Southerner.  They  looked  like  two  deep,  dark 
lakes  with  sunlight  glinting  on  the  surface. 

She  came  to  meet  us,  holding  out  her  hand,  with  easy  grace. 
Had  we  enjoyed  our  bath  ?  Had  we  slept  well  ?  What  did  Madame 
think  of  her  first  night  in  a  tent  ?  Oh  I  for  Monsieur  she  was  not 
uneasy.  An  officer,  who  had  been  abroad  on  active  service,  and 
must  have  camped  out  who  knows  where,  would  make  allowances; 
but  Madame  ?  Here  she  shrugged  her  pretty  shoulders  and  looked  at 
me  inquiringly.  I  assured  her  I  had  never  slept  better  in  my  life, 
and  asked  her  the  meaning  of  the  bell  which  had  awakened  but  not 
disturbed  me. 

That  was  the  bell  of  the  reverend  Fathers  whose  monastery  spire 
wc  could  see  in  the  distance  through  the  trees.  They  had  to  rise 
at  three  o'clock  every  morning,  peckcre!  Xxy  go  to  Matins,  and  the  bell 
rang  to  call  them.  But  now  she  would  miokc  the  cofTce,  and  then 
she  must  be  off  to  get  the  day's  provisions.  She  made  it  on  a  gipsy 
fire,  and  excellent  it  was.  She  still  chatted  pleasantly,  telling  us  that 
her  husband  would  soon  be  back  from  fishing;  at  which  the  little 
Louis  clapped  his  hands  with  glee,  cxcbiming: 

"  Tu  nous/eras  de  2a  bomliabaisse^  dis,f>ttifi  mhref" 

She  smilingly  assented,  then  asked  if  wc  should  like  to  taste  this 
southern  delicacy,  wliich  is  highly  esteemed  all  along  the  coast  from 
Marseilles  to  Mcntonc.  Monsieur  knew  it,  of  course ;  but  Madame  ? 
Again  the  inquiring  glance  and  the  pretty  movement  of  her  shapely 
shoulders.  Finding  Madame  liked  nothing  better  than  to  try 
every  new  dish  that  came  in  her  way,  she  asked  for  out  commhshns^ 
which  included  the  following  somewhat  incongruous  articlr^s :  the 
daily  paper,  two  chops,  a  box  of  hairpms,  some  stamps,  a  bottle  of 
ink,  and  some  fruit.    She  got  into  a  boat  with  little  Louis  and  rowtd 


On  the  Monks  Island. 


1*7 


off  towards  the  shore.  We  watched  them  gliding  slowly  ihrough  the 
traler  and  listened  to  the  pla^  of  the  oars,  then  turned  to  go  round 
the  island. 

St.  Honorat  was  already  known  to  me  by  name,  for  a  much- 
admired  friend,  cutting  short  a  brilliant  career,  turning  his  back  on 
the  world  and  its  honours,  had  buried  himself  in  the  monastery 
which  occupies  the  centre  of  the  island.  He  was  no  longer  there  j 
but  the  place  was  dear  to  me  for  hb  sake,  and  I  was  very  dcidrous 
of  visiting  the  church  where  he  had  so  often  worshipped. 

1  had  paid  a  hasty  visit  to  the  island  with  my  husband,  wlio 
knew  it  well,  a  week  before,  and,  seeing  a  few  tents  there  belonsing 
to  fisherfolt,  thought  how  delightful  it  would  be  to  spend  a  week 
or  so  m  one  ourselves.  We  applied  to  the  sailor's  wife  in  question, 
who,  having  obtained  the  requisite  permission  from  the  Rh^rtnds 
Peres  (the  whole  island  belongs  to  them),  pitched  our  tent  near 
her  own. 

St,  Honorat  is  about  a  mile  in  length.  As  it  is  not  very  broad, 
one  does  not  take  long  to  walk  round  it.  It  is  covered  with  pines 
that  afford  a  pleasant  shade  and  emit  that  peculiar  odour  which, 
when  mixed  with  sea  air,  is  so  exhilarating.  On  one  side  the 
island  slopes  gently  down  to  the  water ;  on  the  other  the  coast  is 
formed  of  bold  rocks.  There  are  many  little  inlets,  which  make 
limpid  bathing-pools  and  fishponds.  As  we  turned  round  a  point 
we  came  upon  the  old  monastery,  a  large  square  building  of  yellow 
stone,  standing  out  in  delightful  contrast  with  the  blue  sea  and  sky. 
That  it  was  founded  by  St.  Honorat  (at  the  beginning  of  the 
fifth  century)  the  name  of  the  island  still  proclaims.  The  actual 
building  was  finished  about  the  year  1 1 16.  It  Is  a  fortress,  and  has 
repelled  many  an  attack  from  pirates  and  others.  The  island  was 
conquered  or  invaded  half  a  score  of  times  from  731  to  1746.  At 
the  time  of  the  Revolution  it  became  propriety  nationale.  It  then 
pftssed  through  various  purchasers'  hands,  including  an  actress  and  a 
butcher,  imlil  il  was  bought  by  the  Bishop  of  Fr^jus,  forty  ye^rs 
■go,  and  the  new  convent  was  built  and  the  monks  reinstated. 

The  old  fortress-monastery  is  preserved  by  the  State  as  a 
moKutrunt  hiiiorique.  A  lay-brother,  dressed  in  brown  frock  and 
cowl,  showed  us  over  it  He  was  an  ideal  monk,  with  finely  cut 
features  and  an  ascetic  air  that,  combined  with  his  genial  smile, 
inspired  one  with  confidence.  He  pointed  out  to  us  the  remains 
of  the  refectory,  the  chapel,  and  traces  of  the  cells. 

la  Imagination  we  went  back  several  hundred  years  and  saw  the 
monks  engaged  in  tbdr  peaceful  avocations  (save  when  obliged  to 


128 


The  Gentleman  s  Magazine, 


repel  iavaders),  walking  with  bent  bead  and  gentle  tread,  ever  silent 
yet  never  idle, 

"  WTiat  Order  do  you  belong  to  ?  "  I  asked  our  guide. 

"AVe  arc  Bernardins  dc  rimmacuWe  Conception,"  he  replied. 

"  Indeed ;  that  is  a  new  name  to  roe." 

"  We  were  established  in  France  between  1840-50  by  the 
R(5vtfrend  Perc  Dom  Marie- Bernard." 

"But  I  thought  you  were  Cistercians." 

"So  we  are,  Madame.  This  is  how  it  is.  Religious  services, 
and  necessarily  religious  Orders,  were  suppressed  at  the  Revolution. 
By  degrees  some  of  the  latter  were  reestablished,  but  not  all.  On 
the  other  hand,  several  new  Orders  were  founded,  and  amongst  them 
our  own.  We  are  a  branch  of  the  Cistercian  Order,  which  itself  is 
nothing  else  than  the  Order  of  St.  Benedict  restored  to  its  primitive 
institutions  and  original  severity  by  the  reform  of  109S,  which  was 
brought  about  by  Sl  Robert  de  Champagne  in  the  monastery  of 
Citeaux.  St.  Bernard,  the  most  illustrious  monk  of  that  abbey,  founded 
the  monastery  of  Clain'aux.  Many  others  wcreestablished  in  thecoursc 
•  of  time,andtodistinguishthc  Reformed  Benedictin^i from  the  ordinary 
monkstheformerwerecalledCisiercians.  The  peoplc^addedourguide, 
with  a  smile,  "call  us  the  white  monks,  as  our  choir-brothers  wear 
white  frocks  and  cowls  in  honour  of  the  Virgin.  The  ordinary  Bene- 
dictins  they  term  black  monks,  for  they  have  adhered  to  that  colour." 

"  But  I  always  hear  you  spoken  of  as  Trappists.  Why  is  that  ?  " 
I  asked. 

"Ah,  Madame,  in  this  evil  world  all  degenerates;  religious 
Orders,  alas !  form  no  exception  to  the  rule.  By  degrees  discipline 
became  lax,  and  a  new  reform  was  started  by  the  Abbot  de  Ranc^ 
(who,  as  commendatory  abbot,  h.^  lived  for  naught  but  pleasure 
and  fashion  up  to  the  age  of  thirty)  at  the  monastery  of  La  Trappe ; 
hence  the  name  Trappists,  which  is  applied  to  those  Cistercians 
that  adopted  this  reform. 

"When  the  R^v^rend  Vcre  Dom  Marie-Bernard  founded  our 
Order  he  mitigated  somewhat  the  severity  of  the  Trappist  rule.  The 
attenuations  are  very  slight,  the  chief  one  being  that  we  have 
separate  cells  instead  of  the  common  dormitory  of  the  Trappists. 
So,  strictly  speaking,  we  arc  not  Trappists,  though  we  arc  so  similar 
that  the  general  public  sees  no  difference  and  calls  us  by  that  name. 
However,  all  branches  of  tlie  Reformed  Cistercian  Order — severe  and 
mitigated — have  been  lately  united  in  a  kind  of  federation  which, 
whilst  leaving  each  of  them  independent,  procures  for  them  all  the 
advantages  accruing  from  union.    This  federation  bos  as  its  h«ad 


On  ike  Monks'  Island, 


» 


129 


and  representadve  in  Rome  an  abbot  who  bears  the  title  of  *tAlM 
G^/rai  de  tOrdre  de  Citeaux,*  There  ore  about  sixty  houses 
bdoi^ng  to  the  Order  all  over  the  vortd,  twcnty^onc  of  which  are 
in  France.'* 

We  climbed  the  steps  to  the  roof  of  the  old  fortrcg^,  and,  looking 
over  the  battlements,  admired  the  wonderful  view. 

*'  Is  it  true."  I  asked — and  I  suppose  my  voice  expressed  the 
sympathy  I  felt,  for  I  saw  a  gleam  of  mischief  flash  over  our  guide's 
face  as  he  answered  me — "  is  il  true  that  the  Tmppists  never  upeiik  ? " 

"  It  is  quite  true.  Madame  knows  that  the  Holy  Scriptures  soy 
that  he  that  offends  not  with  his  tongue  is  perfect.  Trappists  aim 
at  this  perfection,  and  only  use  their  tongues  to  confcsN  their  faults 
and  sing  the  praises  of  God.  Those  that  by  their  functions  aru 
obliged  to  speak,  such  as  the  abbot,  the  gue$t-master,  the  porter, 
&c.,  as  a  rule  much  regret  that  their  duties  prevent  them  from 
keeping  silence,  and  they  speak  as  briefly  as  possible.  Madame 
perhaps  knows  that  there  arc  convents  for  women  of  the  samo 
Order,  and  that  they  are  the  most  flouri-^hing  of  any," 

That  I  could  understAnd  ;  in  fact,  it  seems  10  me  tluit  the  only 
oonvent  where  you  could  expect  peace  to  reign  over  a  week  would 
be  one  where  silence  is  absolutely  binding.  However,  I  was  not 
{j-oing  to  admit  this  to  our  amiable  conductor,  and  I  objected  : 

"In  some  cases  it  would  be  very  hard  to  keep  silent.  If  a  monk 
saw  his  brother  in  danger  from  a  falling  tile  or  a  vi[>cr,  I  should  think 
be  would  be  tempted  to  break  the  rule." 

*'  He  would  break  no  rule  by  speaking  in  such  a  caw.  La  chariti 
pisu  avant  tout,  and  it  would  be  his  duty  lu  speak.  Much,  how* 
ever,  may  be  done  by  signs." 

Here  we  arrived  at  the  foot  of  the  ruin,  and,  fearing  to  weary  the 
kindly  monk  with  further  qucstionsi  we  took  leave  of  him  for  that 
day.  He  shook  my  husband's  hand  warmly,  and  in  a  misguided 
moment  I  held  out  mine.  He  drew  back  a  step,  then  said  1  "  Ah, 
Madame,  we  are  not  allowed  to  touch  the  fair  sex ; "  then,  with  a 
courteous  inclination  of  the  head,  he  added  gently,  as  if  afraid  of 
having  wounded  me,  "  Tis  our  loss,  Madame,  mais  ^est  la  rtgU." 

We  wandered  on,  and  came  upon  an  orphanage  for  boys  which  is 
entirely  supported  by  the  monk^.  The  children  arc  taught  printing — 
we  heard  the  press  working  as  we  approached.  Wc  visited  llie 
building,  and  noticed  how  well-behaved  its  inmates  were.  Ai  we 
cominued  our  itroU  we  arrived  at  the  door  of  the  present  monastery* 
with  its  simple  church  (dedicated,  as  arc  all  churches  of  the  Order,  to 
the  Blened  Virgin),  surrounded  by  the  monks*  cells.     We  were 


I30 


The  Gentiemans  Magazine. 


admitted,  on  ringing,  to  the  parlour.  We  asked  to  be  shown  over 
the  monastery.  The  porter  said  that  Monsieur  was  very  welcome  to 
see  the  building,  but  Madame — here  he  turned  to  me  and,  bowing 
politely,  asked :  *'  Madame  knows  our  rule  ?  Indies  are  never 
admitted  within  the  ddture" 

"  But  I  so  much  want  to  see  the  church  and  one  of  the  cells,"  I 
replied.  "  Won't  you  let  me  iii  for  one  minute  ?  I  will  only  just 
peep,  and  come  away."    And  I  looked  pleadingly  at  the  monk. 

"  Madame  sees  me  profoundly  sorry  to  be  obliged  to  refuse,  but 
no  woman,  unless  she  wears  a  crown,  may  be  admiticd  within  the 
elfitufr.  Cest  ia  rigU,''  Then,  seeing  ray  disappointment,  he  added, 
*'  There  is  really  nothing  to  see — ^a  plain  church,  and  small  rooms 
much  like  this  parlour.** 

But  I  was  not  prompted  by  curiosity,  as  he  thought,  but  by 
afliection.  I  wanted  to  kneel  in  the  stall  where  my  friend  bad  knelt, 
and  sec  the  little  room  where  he  had  so  often  poured  out  his  soul 
to  God,  where  so  many  recollections  of  his  former  manner  of  life 
must  have  come  crowding  round  him. 

Still  there  was  nothing  left  but  to  come  away.  My  husband, 
who  knew  the  convent  well,  did  not  care  to  revisit  it  without  me, 
and  he  did  his  best  to  console  me ;  but  he  had  hard  work. 

During  the  afternoon  we  rested  under  the  pine  trees  with  the 
sea  at  our  feet,  as  smooth  as  glass,  vibrating  in  the  heat  of  the  sun. 
We  gave  ourselves  up  to  the  doke  far  nicnU  which  is  only  pleasant 
or  possible  under  cloudless  skies.  Towards  evening  we  watched  the 
sun  preparing  to  sink  behind  the  Estdrel,  and  admired  the  changing 
hues  of  the  water.  In  the  haxy  distance  tlie  sea  shimmered  with 
all  the  delicate  and  varied  lints  of  moiher-of-pcarl,  and  the  pale 
moon,  growing  gradually  luminous,  shed  a  faint  track  of  siK*ery 
light  across  the  wavelets  that  rippled  noiselessly  in  the  refreshing 
evening  breeze. 

We  were  sitting  speediless,  lost  in  admiration,  when  we  beard 
the  voice  of  little  Louis  calling  to  us :  "  Venct  viU^petitt  mire  a  fait 
ia  bouiUabaisse"  We  followed  him,  and  found  our  hostess^ 
surrounded  by  a  few  fisher-folk,  bending  over  her  cooking-pot, 
whence  issued  an  odour  of  fish,  saffron  and  garlic  She  cut  slices 
of  bread  into  a  soup-tureen,  and  poured  over  them  the  hot  fish  soup. 
Knowing  thai  my  face  was  being  carefully  watched,  I  took  my  first 
spoonful  of  the  new  dish  with  an  appreciative  smile  which  earned 
for  me  the  approval  of  the  entire  group  and  made  them  my  friends 
for  life. 

After  supper  we  chatted  with  the  kindly  people,  the  moon  throw- 


On  the  Monks*  Island, 


131 


Tng  dark  shadows  on  the  ground.  My  husband  amused  Louis  by 
making  shadow  animals  for  him  on  the  tent,  imitating  their  cries. 
The  child  was  delighted,  and  dapped  his  chubby  hands,  shouting 
"Emorel  tncortl"  We  were  young  and  inexperienced,  and  did 
not  know  how  narrow  is  the  borderland  between  smiles  and  t«irs, 
fun  and  fear  in  children's  minds ;  so  picture  succeeded  picture  until, 
suddenly,  the  little  boy  hid  his  face  on  his  mother's  breast,  exclaiming 
"y *"*/""*>  WW*/"  Nothing  could  console  him,  and  he  awoke 
several  times  during  the  night,  liauntcd  by  the  weird  shadows  he 
had  seen  in  the  moonlight. 

And  so  the  days  passed  by,  leaving  behind  them  memories  that  will 
never  lose  their  charm.  One  afternoon  we  watched  the  Mediterranean 
Squadron  steam  by  on  its  way  to  anchor  in  the  Golfe  Juan.  We 
had  felt  so  carried  back  to  the  Middle  Ages  by  our  surroundings  and 
the  very  garb  of  the  monks,  whom  we  watched  at  their  daily  work 
in  the  fields,  that  these  modem  monsters  seemed  an  anachronism. 

We  made  another  visit  to  the  fortress,  and  were  heartily  welcomed 
by  our  former  guide. 

"  Why  did  your  bell  ring  at  eleven  o'clock  last  night  ?  "  was  my 
first  question. 

"Did  it  disturb  Madame?"  he  asked  quickly,  with  that  sincere 
consideration  for  the  comfort  of  others  which  true  ascetics,  who 
admit  of  no  ease  for  themselves,  always  show. 

"  No,  indeed,"  I  replied  ;  '*  1  love  to  hear  it  day  or  night ;  it  has 
seemed  a  living  thing  to  me  all  the  time  we  have  been  here.  I  only 
wondered  why  it  rang," 

"Because  it  was  the  eve  of  the  Assumption  of  our  Lady.  We 
rise  at  eleven  on  the  eves  of  the  great  feasts." 

"Then  you  have  only  three  hours'  sleep?" 

"Just  so,  Madame." 

"  What  do  the  monks  do  all  day  long  on  ordinary  occasions  ?  "  I 
asked. 

"Madame  refers  to  thc/^.r,  no  doubt.  There  are  two  classes 
of  monks." 

"Yes,  I  notice  some  of  you  wear  brown  frocks  aod  cowls,  and 
the  others  have  white  frocks  and  black  siapulains*' 

"Those  of  us  who  are  clad  in  brown  are  the  frires  convers 
lay-brothers).  We  do  the  rougher  work  of  the  monastery.  Some 
of  us  cannot  even  read,  and  could  not  follow  the  Offices  with  profit. 
'Mais  celui  qui  iravaiiU  prie^  not  so  Madame?  The  p^res  (choir- 
brothers),  who  are  dressed  in  white,  sing  the  praises  of  God  from 
their  books,  as  wc  cannot  do ;  but  we  often  join  them  in  church 


132  The  Gentlcmans  Magazine. 

during  the  day  and  praise  God  in  our  humble  way.  I  will  tell 
Madame  how  the  pires  spend  the  day.  We  all  rise  at  five  minutes 
to  three.  We  sleep  in  our  frocks,  ready  to  get  up  the  moment  the 
bell  rings,  and  by  three  o'clock  we  are  all  in  the  church  reciting 
Matins  of  the  Office  of  our  Lady.  After  this  the  f^ra  draw  their 
hoods  over  their  heads,  and  sit  in  the  dimly  lighted  church  meditating 
for  half  an  hour.  At  four  o'clock  Matins  and  Lauds  of  the  Monastic 
OfBce  are  recited.  At  five  o'clock  those  plrts  who  are  priests  say 
Mass ;  the  others  pray  and  meditate.  At  .seven  o'clock  I'rime  is 
sung,  followed  by  the  Chapter,  where  the  Rule  is  sung  and  explained, 
and  all  infractions  arc  publicly  confessed  by  the  assembled  monks. 
After  this  we  break  our  fast — if  it  happens  to  be  during  the  time 
between  E.nster  and  September  14— by  eating  a  slice  of  bread  and 
n  piece  of  cheese  ;  unless  it  is  a  fast  day." 

'*  And  if  it  is  not  between  Easter  and  September?  "  I  queried. 

"We  eat  nothing  till  noon,"  he  rephcd  calmly. 

"  But  how  can  you  sing  and  pray  and  work  for  nine  hours  with- 
out taking  food?    I  should  think  some  must  faint  from  exhaustion." 

"  I  have  never  seen  that  happen.  It  is  necessary  to  master  the 
body,  so  that  the  spirit  may  be  more  at  liberiy.'* 

"  Well,"  I  replied,  "  I  am  glad  to  know  that  you  have  breakfasted 
4o-day.     What  do  the/i^rfj  do  next  ?  " 

"  They  go  to  their  cells,  sweep  and  tidy  them.  Then  they  per- 
form their  ablutions.  After  this  they  work  at  some  manual  labour, 
generally  in  the  fields,  until  nine  o'clock,  when  Tierce  is  recited,  after 
which  they  are  free  to  work  in  their  cells.  They  mostly  pass  the 
time  in  the  study  of  the  Bible  and  of  those  works  of  the  Fathers 
that  deal  with  monastic  life.  When  work  ts  pressing,  on  account  of 
the  weather,  or  in  harvest,  the  hours  are  somewhat  altered  ;  they 
then  work  seven  hours  a  day  out  of  doors,  if  necessary.  At  half- 
past  eleven  Sixte  and  examination  of  conscience.    Then  dinner." 

I  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"  I  hope  you  have  a  hearty  meal.     What  do  they  give  you?" 

•*  Vegetable  soup,  a  vegetable  dish,  bread  and  a  fruit.  All  is 
mnigre  :  neither  fat  nor  butter  is  used  in  preparing  the  food  ;  we  can 
have  oil  and  vinegar.  We  have  a  sufficient  quantity,  and  half  a  litre 
of  wine  each  for  the  twenty-four  hours.  During  the  meal  the  life  of  a 
saint  is  read  by  the  monks  in  turn,  a  week  at  a  time.  As  we  go  to 
the  refectory  we  chant  the  Miitrcre,  and  on  leaving  it  another  Psalm. 

"After  dinner  we  are  free  to  do  as  we  like.  Some  walk  in  the 
cloisters,  some  tend  the  garden,  others  read  or  study,  but  no  one  speaks 
A  word. 


On  ike  Monks  Island. 


"  At  two  o'clock  the  pins  work  again  in  the  fields.  Madame 
has  seen  them  ?  '* 

"  Yes,  often  ;  it  interests  me  to  watch  them." 

"  At  four  o'clock  ihey  leave  their  work  and  go  to  Vespers  in  the 
church.  Then  they  study  again  in  their  cells.  At  half-past  six, 
meditation.  At  seven  o'clock  supper,  which  resembles  dinner. 
Half  an  hour  later  Chapter,  when  some  ascetic  work  is  read  out 
loud.  Then  Compline  is  sung  in  the  church,  and  after  examination 
of  conscience  the  day  is  closed  by  the  singing  of  Salve  Rcgina,  and 
we  all  retire  to  resL" 

In  r^sum^  : 

Four  hours  of  manual  work  at  least,  this  being  the  minimum. 

Four  hours  of  study. 

Seven  hours  spent  in  singing  the  praises  of  God,  in  meditation 
and  in  prayer. 

Two  hours'  recreation,  including  meals. 

Seven  hours'  sleep. 

And  some  people  talk  about  lazy  monks  ! 

The  words  of  R.  L.  Stevenson  on  this  subject  recurred  to  me  : 

"  Into  how  many  houses  would  not  the  note  of  the  monastery 
bell,  dividing  the  day  into  manageable  portions,  bring  peace  of  mind 
and  healthy  activity  of  body !  We  speak  of  hardships,  but  the  true 
hardship  is  to  be  a  dull  fool,  and  permitted  to  mismanage  life  in 
one's  own  dull,  foolish  manner," 

I  asked  our  friendly  cicerone,  on  another  occasion,  what  faults 
they  were  that  had  to  be  publicly  confessed  at  Chapter.  He  men- 
tioned the  following : 

Speaking,  though  but  a  single  word. 

Raising  the  eyes,  on  entering  the  church,  to  the  gallery  where 
i-isitors  sit. 

Being  late  for  the  Offices. 

Working  in  the  fields  with  nonchalance. 

Refraining  from  singing  during  the  Offices. 

For  these  infractions  of  the  rule  the  Abbot  inflicts  punishments 
which  differ  according  to  the  gravity  of  the  offence,  and  the  individual 
temperament  of  the  delinquents. 

Those  who  arrive  late  for  the  Offices  sit  in  the  lower  row  of  stalls, 
where  there  are  no  Iwoks,  to  avoid  disturbing  their  companions,  who 
are  already  in  their  places,  by  passing  in  front  of  them.  Other 
punishments  are  to  kiss  the  feet  of  each  monk  in  turn  ;  to  kneel 
during  the  first  part  of  dinner  ;  to  dine  sealed  on  a  stool,  or  some- 
times  even  kneeling,  in  the  middle  of   the  rcfector}*.     The  most 


'32 


The  Gentleman's  Magazine, 


during  the  day  and  praise  God  in  our  humble  way.  I  will  teU 
Madame  how  ihe/^«  spend  ihe  day.  We  all  rise  at  five  minutes 
to  three.  W't  sleep  in  our  frocks,  ready  to  get  up  the  moment  the 
bell  rings,  and  by  three  o'clock  we  are  all  in  the  cbtucli  reciting 
Matins  of  the  Office  of  our  Lady.  After  this  the  pires  draw  tlieir 
hoods  over  their  beads,  and  sit  in  the  dimly  lighted  church  meditating 
for  half  an  hour.  At  four  o'clock  Matins  and  Lauds  of  the  Monastic 
Office  are  recited.  At  five  o'clock  those  pins  who  are  priests  say 
Mass ;  the  others  pray  and  meditate.  At  seven  o'clock  Prime  is 
sung,  followed  by  the  Chapter,  where  the  Rule  is  sung  and  explained, 
and  all  infractions  are  publicly  confessed  by  the  assembled  monks. 
After  this  we  break  our  fast — if  it  happens  to  be  during  the  time 
between  Easter  and  September  14— by  eating  a  slice  of  bread  and 
a  piece  of  cheese ;  unless  it  is  a  fast  day.'* 

'*  And  if  it  is  not  between  Easier  and  September?"  I  queried* 

"  We  eat  nothing  till  noon,"  he  replied  calmly. 

"  But  how  can  you  sing  and  pray  and  work  for  nine  hours  with- 
out taking  food?    I  should  think  some  must  faint  from  exhaustion." 

"  I  have  never  seen  that  happen.  It  is  necessary  to  roaster  the 
body,  so  that  the  spirit  may  be  more  at  libeny." 

"Well," I  replied,  "  I  am  glad  to  know  that  you  have  breakfasted 
40-day.    What  do  the/t-^f  do  next  ?  " 

"  They  go  to  their  cells,  sweep  and  tidy  them.  Then  they  per- 
form their  ablutions.  Af^cr  this  they  work  at  some  manual  labour, 
generally  in  the  fields,  until  nine  o'clock,  when  Tierce  is  recited,  after 
which  they  are  free  to  work  in  their  cells.  They  mostly  pass  the 
time  in  the  study  of  the  Bible  and  of  those  works  of  the  Fathers 
that  deal  with  monastic  life.  When  work  is  pressing,  on  account  of 
the  weather,  or  in  harveitt,  the  hours  are  somewtiat  altered  ;  they 
then  work  seven  hours  a  day  out  of  doors,  if  necessary.  At  half- 
past  eleven  Sixte  and  examination  of  conscience.    Then  duiDer.** 

I  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"  I  hope  you  have  a  hearty  meal.    What  do  they  give  you  ?  " 

"  Vegetable  soup,  a  vegetable  dibh,  bread  and  a  fruiL  All  is 
aigre  :  neither  fat  nor  butter  is  used  in  preparing  tlie  food  ;  we  can 
have  oil  and  vinegar.  We  ha\-e  a  sufficient  quantity,  and  half  a  litre 
of  wine  each  for  the  twenty-four  hours.  During  the  meal  the  life  of  a 
saint  is  read  by  the  monks  in  turn,  a  week  at  a  lime  As  we  go  to 
Ihc  refectory  we  chant  the  Afisererr,  and  on  leaving  it  another  Psolra, 

"After  dinner  we  axe  free  to  do  as  we  like.  Some  walk  in  the 
cloisters, some  tend  the  garden,  others  read  or  study,  but  noone^eaka 
A  word. 


Om  Urn  Mmks*  Idmmd.  135 


"At  two  o'd(M^  die /errr  vert  a^dn  m  die  fie3& 
fais  seen  diem?* 

"Yes.aAm;  k  nHocds  me  to  valdi  dicm.' 

■■Atfoord'dockdi^lesicdieB-wiikaDdgD  toVcspcs  ia  &e 
dinrdi.  Tlien  di^  stvif  ^5^^  m  dior  ceftL.  Aft  Iwlfjif  s^ 
iiie£tatioiL  At  seven  oclocx  "'jf^*^  ■IdlIi  ics^Bfaies  dHBoi 
Half  an  boor  later  fJnplrr,  vfaen  some  asoebc  nk  is  icad  art 
loud.  Then  Ccoipfine  is  song  m  die  dandi,  and  afio^  eoMBatiiH 
of  f ntwrimrr.  die  d«y  is  dosed  by  the  sfapog  of  Sibe  ib^ena,  aid 
we  all  ictiie  to  rest* 

Inrfenmf : 

Foot  boors  of  manaal  work  at  least,  dns  beii^  ifae  ■■' 

Four  boms  of  stody. 

Seven  boms  qient  in  sing^  tbe  poises  of  God,  in  metfisazioa 
andinpniyer. 

Two  boors' recieatiao,  indDtfiz^  meak. 

Seven  hoars'  sleepu 

And  some  people  talk  about  la^  monks ! 

The  voids  of  R.  L.  Stevenson  00  this  sobject  lecmicd  to  me : 

"  Into  bow  manj  hoases  would  not  die  note  of  the  monastery 
bell,  dividu^  die  day  into  manageable  portions^  bnr%  peace  of  mind 
and  bealdiy  activity  %A  body  \  We  speak  erf*  barddiips,  bat  the  tree 
hardship  is  to  be  a  doll  fool,  and  permitted  to  mismanage  life  in 
one's  own  doll,  foolish  manner." 

I  asked  oar  fiiendly  cicerone^  cm  another  occasion,  what  £uilte 
they  were  that  had  to  be  pobUdy  ccmfessed  at  Ch^iter.  He  men- 
tioned die  followii^ : 

Speaking  diough  hot  a  single  word. 

Raising  the  eyes,  on  entering  the  church,  to  the  gallery  where 
visitors  sit. 

Being  late  for  the  Offices. 

Working  in  the  fields  with  nonchalance. 

Refrsuning  from  singing  during  the  Offices. 

For  these  infractions  of  the  rule  the  Abbot  inflicts  punishments 
which  differ  according  to  the  gravity  of  the  offence,  and  the  individual 
temperament  of  the  delinquents. 

Those  who  arrive  UUe  for  the  Offices  sit  in  the  lower  row  of  stalls, 
where  there  are  no  books,  to  avoid  disturbing  their  companions,  who 
are  already  in  their  places,  t^  passing  in  front  of  them.  Other 
punishments  are  to  kiss  the  feet  of  each  monk  in  turn ;  to  kneel 
during  the  first  part  of  dinner ;  to  dine  seated  on  a  stool,  or  some- 
times even  kneeling,  in  the  middle  of  the  refectory.    The  most 


136 


The  GentiemaiCs  Magazine^ 


monks  had  fallen  on  their  knees,  with  their  faces  to  the  earth,  thd 
chantn  crying,  in  the  wailing  tones  we  had  just  heard,  the  word* 
Domine  I  The  monks  replied,  lower  down  the  scale,  Miscnre  super 
peccatorem.  Then  the  chantn  again  uttered  that  heart-rending  cry, 
Doming  t  and  the  monks  replied.  Yet  a  third  time  that  piteous 
call,  as  of  a  soul  on  the  confines  of  despair,  Votnine  /  and  once  more 
the  response,  which  floated  over  the  wall  like  a  sob,  "  Pity  for  a  poor 
sinner."    I  was  thrilled  through  and  through. 

The  day  continued  mule  and  oppressive.  Little  Louis  was 
fractious,  and  his  gentle  mother  had  much  to  do  to  keep  him  amused 
all  day.  He  complained  of  his  head,  of  being  tired,  yet  unable  to' 
sleep.  The  adult  portion  of  our  community  seemed  depressed  and 
weary.  There  was  an  unearthly  hush,  as  if  some  terrible  catastrophe 
were  at  hand.  Instead  of  being  borne  up  by  the  atmosphere,  the  air 
rested  heavily  on  us,  as  if  for  support.  On  the  horizon  were  clouds 
of  a  coppery  hue,  and  the  sailors  shook  their  heads  as  they  looked 
out  to  sea.  After  supper  we  went  for  a  stroll  round  the  island,  but 
every  stone  seemed  to  me  to  be  listening,  every  rock  waiting,  for 
something  ind^finissabk  yet  awful ;  from  behind  each  tree  I  fancied 
I  saw  a  mysterious  white-robed  figure  glide  as  we  approached.  In 
the  stillness,  so  intense  that  it  was  as  if  Nature  herself  were  holding 
her  breath  to  listen  for  that  \-ague  but  dread  something,  I  suddeiily 
heard  an  unearthly  shriek,  Domine  ! 

It  was  purely  imaginary,  but  I  could  bear  it  no  longer,  so  we 
hastened  back  to  the  tent.  We  found  Louis  moaning  in  his  sleep 
in  his  mother's  arms.  She  was  not  over-anxious  about  him ;  she 
said  /e  kmps  Hait  maladt^  and  made  the  child  maladt  too. 

When  I  fell  asleep,  it  was  to  repeat  in  my  dreams  the  haunting 
sensations  of  the  day,  I  thought  it  was  my  friend  who  was  dying, 
1  heard  the  four  consecutive  knocks,  several  times  repeated,  and  they 
seemed  to  be  beaten  on  my  heart.  I  strained  my  ears,  striving,  yet 
fearing,  to  catch  the  fatal  roll  announcing  that  all  was  over.  As  the 
silence  was  prolonged  after  the  last  four  knocks,  I  hoped  against 
hope.  But,  suddenly,  I  heard  the  dreaded  roll  beginning  in  the 
distance,  feebly  at  first,  but  growing  stronger  and  stronger,  until  it 
ftppeaxed  to  me  to  be  a  living  thing  rolling  towards  me,  to  burst  to 
untold  horror  on  my  beating  heart,  and  I  was  powerless  to  lift  a 
finger.  As  it  was  about  to  touch  me,  I  recoiled  with  a  despairing 
elTort,  and  awoke  with  a  scream.  A  flash  of  light,  which  in  my  over- 
wrought state  I  took  for  the  open  heavens,  was  followed  by  a  second 
roll,  terminating  in  a  tcrrixic  crash.  I  realised,  at  last,  that  a  violent 
thunderstorm  was  breaking  over  our  heads.    In  another  moroenl  the 


On  the  Monks   Jsland. 


m 


rain  streamed  down,  as  it  only  can  in  the  South.  Our  tent  was  wet 
through  berore  we  bad  finished  huddling  on  our  clothes,  and  soon 
protected  os  little  more  thnn  would  a  hair  sieve.  Wc  hastily  sought 
refuge  in  the  htlle  restaurant,  and  thence  watched  the  lightning 
playing  round  the  island.  At  one  moment  it  illuminated  the 
whole  of  Carmes,  which,  for  a  passing  second,  was  as  visible  as  at 
high  noon.  Then  it  flashed  behind  the  Estcrel ;  then  the  whole 
horiron  seemed  on  fire.  The  thunder  was  now  rumbling,  now 
tearing  and  cracking  over  our  beads.  It  was  terrible,  yet  it  brought 
relief.  Nature,  who  had  been  mute  for  two  whole  days,  now  gave 
vent  to  her  pent-up  feelings  ;  the  strain  was  over.  One  brilliant 
fiash,  with  a  lurid  fork  of  lightning  zigzagging  down  into  the  sea,  was 
accompanied  by  a  succession  of  reports,  as  though  sheets  of  iron  had 
been  torn  in  half  and  tlie  jagged  edges  hurled  against  each  other 
again. 

After  this  the  storm  began  to  abate.  The  rain  rattled  on  the  roof 
of  our  shelter  in  a  crescendo  which  would  have  been  unbearable  but 
for  the  silence  of  the  preceding  days.  Now  all  sound  was  welcome. 
I  felt  tempted  to  rush  out  into  the  ratn  and  shriek  with  the  storm. 
By  d^ees  the  thunder  rolled  sullenly  away  into  the  distance,  and, 
tired  out  with  our  previous  sleepless  night,  we  lay  down  to  rest 
on  our  improvised  beds,  and  fell  asleep  to  the  soothing  lullaby 
of  the  monastery  bell,  for  it  was  now  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning. 

We  awoke  later  in  the  day  to  find  the  sun  shining  in  a  cloudless 

omc  of  blue  ;  the  only  sign  of  the  night's  turmoil  was  the  tossing 

It  seemed  to  be  fretting  over  the  past  disturbance  and  to  be 

'  too  agitated  to  forget  it  and  settle  down  again  to  its  usual  summer 

repose.     The  air  was  delicious,  and  we  felt  new*born  as  we  inhaled 

the  aromatic  odour  of  the  pine  trees  and  the  ozone  from  the  sea. 

was  skipping  about  in   unconscious  reinvigoration  of  body. 

fishcr-folk,   bright  and   cheerful,   hailed  one  another  with  a 

nse  of  a  vague  danger  overpast 

Wc  stayed  a  few  days  longer  on  the  island,  then  bade  farewell  to 
our  ^end  the  monk.  Our  hostess  accompanied  us  to  shore,  her 
iktisband  rowing,  with  little  Louis  by  his  side,  who,  with  his  chubby 
baby  hands  on  one  of  the  oars  beside  his  father's  rough  brown  fingers, 
was  convinced  that  he  was  doing  all  the  work. 

As  we  looked  back  at  tlie  island  where  we  had  Sjient  such  happy 
and  such  memorable  hours,  I  had  but  one  r^rei,  which  I  whispered 
to  my  husband :  "  If  I  could  only  have  seen  the  church  and  have 
knelt  in  that  stall  I  "* 

VOL.  c«ci.    NO.  acktS.  ^ 


»38 


Tim  GentUnuiiCs  Afagaztne. 


II. 

Ons  da^  in  the  following  March,  as  I  vas  sitting  in  our  villa,  in 
foU  view  of  the  islands  (for  ve  bad  settled  near  them,  so  great  nras 
their  attraction),  singing  a  lulbby  to  our  baby,  who  had  come  with 
the  New  Year,  my  husband  entered  with  the  air  of  one  who  brings 
good  news. 

"Your  wish  is  to  be  gratified  at  last,  petite!'^  he  exclaimed. 
"Just  listen  to  this."  He  read  a  paragraph  from  the  paper,  announc- 
ing that  the  benediction  of  the  newly-elected  Abbot  of  Notre-Dame 
de  Ltrins  (the  group  of  islands,  including  St.  Marguerite,  St  Honorat, 
and  several  tiny  islets,  is  called  Us  ties  de  JJrtns^)  was  to  take  place 
on  the  following  Tuesday,  and  the  Pope  had  granted  a  dispense  per- 
mitting women  to  enter  the  church  and  be  present  at  the  ceremony. 
The  news  seemed  too  good  to  be  true,  but  there  it  was  in  black  and 
while. 

Rising  early  on  the  Tuesday  morning,  wc  embarked  on  the 
steamer  that  was  to  convey  us  to  St  Honorat  When  we  reached 
the  convent,  I  found,  to  my  regret,  thai  women  had  to  go  to  the 
gallerj'  and  men  to  the  nave  of  the  church.  "Then  I  shall  not  see 
the  stall,  after  all,"  I  said  to  my  husband. 

*'  Yes,  you  can  see  it  from  the  galler>'.  It  is  the  eighth  from  the 
altar  on  the  right-hand  side." 

All  the  best  places  were  taken  upstairs,  so  I  had  to  keep  at  the 
back.  I  began  to  count  the  stalls.  1  could  see  the  sixth,  and,  by 
craning  my  neck,  the  arm  of  the  seventh,  but  not  an  inch  of  the 
eighth.      It  was  loo  provoking  I 

The  two  chapels,  the  large  one  for  the  Bishop  and  the  small  one 
for  the  Abbot,  were  visible.  I  noticed  two  little  wine-casks  covered 
respectively  with  gold  and  silver  paper  ;  also  two  enormous  loaves 
similarly  decorated.  As  1  was  wondering  what  they  were  for,  the 
procession  entered  the  church.  I  followed  the  service  with  much 
interest  The  Bishop  and  the  Abbot-elect  donned  their  sacerdotal 
garments.  Then  two  Abbots,  from  monasteries  belonging  to  other 
Orders,  presented  the  postulant  to  the  Bishop,  who  was  seated  en 
his  throne.  Six  times,  in  response  to  the  Bishop's  questions  as  to 
whether  he  would  be  circumspect  in  conduct,  a  faithful  leader  of  ihe 
flock,  obedient  to  the  Pope  and  to  the  Bishop,  &c,,  the  Abbot 
replied  "  Volo."  Then  they  both  said  Mass  in  their  chapels.  After 
the  Psalms  and  the  Litany,  chanted  by  the  monk^,  during  which  the 
Abbot-elect  lay  prostrate  on  the  ground,  the  Bishop  blessed  him  and 


Oh  ike  Monks*  Island. 


139 


the  monVa  sang  the  Kyrie.  Before  the  Preface  the  Abbot  rose,  then 
knelt  before  Ihe  Bishop ;  at  its  dose  the  impoduon  of  bands  took 
place.  Some  prayers  followed ;  then  the  Prelate  gave  successively 
to  the  kneeling  Abbot  the  Rule,  the  crosier,  and  the  ring  (set  with  a 
diamond).  Then  the  Bishop  gave  him  the  kiss  of  peace,  as  did  also 
the  two  Abbots.  After  the  offertory  the  Abbot  presented  the  casks 
of  win^  the  loaves,  and  two  candles,  weighing  four  pounds  each,  to 
the  Bishop.  The  bread  and  wine,  I  was  told  afterwards,  were 
emblems  of  eternal  priesthood  after  the  order  of  Melchisedec  ;  the 
candles  recalled  the  words  of  our  Lord,  "  Ve  are  the  light  of  the 
world."  Mass  proceeded,  but  the  Abbot  did  not  pronounce  the 
words  of  consecration.  The  Bishop  received  the  communion  in 
both  kinds,  then  gave  the  hostU  to  the  Abbot  After  the  Post-com- 
munion the  Bishop  gave  the  benediction,  and  placed  the  mitre  on 
the  Abbot's  head,  removed  the  ring  and  put  on  the  gloves,  replacing 
the  ring  on  the  gloved  finger.  The  bells  now  rang  joyfully  as  the 
pontiff  conducted  the  Abbot  to  his  abbalial  chair,  and,  placing  the 
crosier  in  his  left  hand,  gave  him  authority  to  govern  the  monastery 
and  its  inhabitants.  He  then  began  the  Te  Deum.  iVfter  the  first 
line  the  Abbot  rose,  and,  accompanied  by  his  brother  Abbots,  pro- 
ceeded round  the  church,  blessing  the  people  :  the  monks  then 
advanced  in  order,  and,  after  a  profound  inclination,  exchanged  with 
their  new  conductor  the  kiss  of  brotherly  love.  After  the  Tt  Deum 
and  a  prayer  the  Abbot  rose,  gave  the  solemn  benediction,  and 
terminated  the  ceremony  by  turning  towards  the  Bishop  and  singing, 
on  his  knees,  Ad  multos  amws. 

The  procession  left  the  church,  the  Abbot  blessing  the  people  as 
he  passed.  Outside  a  very  aged  couple  were  awaiting  the  Abbot, 
and,  kneeling,  begged  to  kiss  his  hand;  they  made  a  touching  picture. 

The  mass  of  visitors  went  off  by  the  steamer.  We  had  engaged 
a  boat  to  row  us  back,  so  stayed  behind,  and,  returning  to  the  monas- 
tery after  revisiting  the  old  familiar  spots  round  the  island,  foimd  we 
were  free  to  enter.  We  \-isited  the  Chapter  and  the  refectory,  but 
were  not  allowed  to  see  the  cells.  When  it  was  time  for  Vespers,  we 
went  into  the  gallery  and  listened  to  the  monks  chanting  the  office. 
We  were  quite  alone.  The  slow  Gregorian  clrnnt,  the  tender 
reverence  expressed  in  the  tones  of  the  singers,  the  white-robed 
figures,  the  dimly-lighted  church,  made  a  harmonious  whole,  and 
carried  us  back  to  the  early  ages  of  Christianity.  I  now  saw  and 
heard  how  my  friend  had  passed  many  an  hour. 

After  the  last  prayer  had  been  said,  and  the  monks  had  left  their 
stalls,  returning  with  bent  heads  to  their  cells,  we  went  down»  and^ 


1 

TAs  Gentientan's  Magasine. 

iring  us,  entered  the  nave  and  went  to  the  stall — at  last  I 
)iQ  overwhelmed  by  a  host  of  conflicting  emotions,  tny 
reeling  by  my  side.    I  prayed  fervently  for  my  friend,  and 
in  hand,  we  went  to  our  boat  and  rowed  home  bathed  in 
,  then  crimson,  glory  of  the  setting  sun- 
h  had  been  gratified ;  I  was  content. 

z£l1A  DE   LADEVfezE. 

1 

■ 

A    STUDY    OF   NIGHTJARS. 


I. 

THE  Nightjar  is  one  of  the  most  curious  and  highlr  ipectaUBed 
of  our  birds.  It  is  interesting  not  only  on  account  of  iti 
peculiar  habits,  but  for  certain  things  about  it  in  which  it  differs 
from  any  other  bird.  Its  protective  marks  and  highly  proteclivc 
insliocu  are  what  first  attract  and  almost  fascinate  the  student ;  but 


'">'!l. 


THK  MCHTJAt. 

the  more  he  observes  and  studies,  the  more  do  his  surprises  increase. 
Even  its  multitude  of  names  is  suggestive,  proving  that  long  before 
the  days  of  exact  natural  history  it  was  much  looked  alter  and 
vatcfacd,  and  its  peculiarities  noted,  and  many  of  them  preserved  in 
names.  Besides  the  Nightjar,  it  is  the  goat*8ucker,  the  eve-churr, 
the  eve-jar,  the  wheel-bird,  the  dorr-hawk,  the  fern-owl,  the  chum- 
owl,  and  the  fern-hawk.  It  is,  in  aspect,  somelliing  between  a  hawk 
and  a  cuckoo,  or,  as  some  have  said,  between  a  swallow  and  an  owl. 
In  ccitain  positions  and  aspects  it  has  really  a  touch  or  reminder 
of  all  these  birds,  yet  in  other  things  it  is  thoroughly  unlike  all  or  any 
of  them. 


142 


The  Gentlemafis  Magazine, 


II. 

In  some  parts  of  the  country  it  is  regarded  by  the  rustics  as  a 
monstrosity,  as  an  uncanny  bird  that  it  is  not  lucky  to  come  near; 
and  by  farmers  and  woodmen  in  some  parts  it  is  mercilessly  hunted 
and  shot  down,  though,  as  we  shall  see,  it  is  one  of  their  very  best 
friends.  In  look  it  certainly  is  strange,  outri^  and  somewhat  eerie. 
It  has  no  beak  to  speak  of,  and  when  seen  in  front  directly,  it  really 
seems,  wilh  its  bright,  wide-open  eyes,  like  some  vcird  and  eerie 
cllin  thing,  more  especially  if  sitting,  as  it  invariably  does,  not  across 
as  true  pcrchcrs  do,  but  lengthwise  on  the  branch  of  a  tree,  or 
brooding  on  n'hat  passes  for  its  nest  in  a  little  depression  on  the 
bare  ground.  Hundreds  of  times  have  I  seen  it,  flat,  scarcely  notice- 
able on  a  tree^  and  sometimes  when  it  became  certain  it  was  seen,  it 
would  run  up  or  along  the  branch  like  a  little  quadruped — or  some 
new  species,  say  a  tree  vole— to  disappear  on  another  branch,  putting 
the  trtmk  between  it  and  you.  Its  mouth  is  carried  far  back,  and  is 
wide — the  biggest  mouth  of  any  bird,  whatever  its  size— and  on  the 
upper  part  of  the  beak  it  is  armed  with  a  drooping  row  of  peculiar 
spine-like  appendages  or  bristles  (really  quills  or  undeveloped 
feathers).  Its  stretch  of  wing  is  remarkable  for  the  size  of  its  body, 
and  its  flight  is  very  silent,  due  to  the  presence  of  soft  downy 
swathes  on  the  breast,  under  the  wings,  and  over  the  l^s,  which  are 
short,  so  that  only  the  toes  are  visible.  And  the  toes — particularly 
the  middle  toe — are  unhke  those  of  most  other  birds.  This  middle 
toe  is  elongated  out  of  all  true  proportion  in  the  lower  joint,  and  is 
furnished  with  a  kind  of  comb-like  flange  or  fringe,  about  the  true 
purpose  of  which,  as  we  shall  see  immediately,  naturalists  have  had 
many  different  notions  and  theories,  but  have  as  yet  come  to  no  real 
agreement  or  conclusion  on  the  point.  The  best  theory  with  regard 
to  the  purpose  of  this  special  feature  is  that  it  is  employed  to  dean  or 
clear  from  its  mouth  the  dibris  of  moths  and  beetles,  which  is  apt  to 
remain  fastened  there  by  the  gummy  substance  with  which  it  lines  its 
mouth,  to  make  the  surer  of  keeping  what  it  has  caught  as  it  flies 
round  and  round,  for,  being  strictly  crepuscular,  its  time  for  catching 
prey  is  comparatively  short,  especially  when  it  has  young  to  feed. 

The  Nightjar  is  a  bird  of  the  twilight  or  eve  rather  than  of  the 
night  (though  on  moonlight  nights  our  Nightjar  can  work  on  into 
the  night),  and  is  exceedingly  shy  and  secluded.  The  plumage  is  a 
mixture  of  moorland  tints— the  ash-grey,  brown,  and  yellow  of  furze, 
firs,  and  ferns,  with  dim  blotchings  here  and  there  Ukc  the  russet  of 
fading  leaves.    By  loosening  out  its  feathers  a  little  and  lying  flat  it 


A  Study  of  Nightjars, 


can  exactly  match  a  grey  weathered  post-top  or  rail.  It  will  lie 
along  the  top  of  a  post  or  along  a  rail  as  well  as  on  the  branch  of  a 
tree  precisely  as  though  the  bird  were  a  part  of  it,  and  thus  will  lie 
secure  in  the  sense  of  protective  hues  till  you  actually  put  out  your 
hand  to  touch  it.  During  the  day  it  scoops  out  a  slight  hollow  in 
the  earth  or  among  leaves,  and  lies  there  matching  them  exactly. 
Mr.  Hudson  admirably  says  ; 

"  During  the  daylight  hours  he  sits  on  the  ground  among  bracken 

or  heather,  or  by  the  side  of  a  furze-bush,  or  in  some  open  place 

where  there  is  no  shelter;  but  so  long  as  he  remains  motionless  it  is  all 

but  impossible  to  detect  him,  so  closely  does  he  resemble  the  earth 

in  colour.    And  here  we  see  the  advantage  of  his  peculiar  colouring 

I  -^the  various  soft  shades  of  buff  and  brown  and  grey  which,  at  a 

[short  distance,  harmonise  with  the  surroundings  and  render  him 

'  invisible." ' 


HI. 

Its  name  of  goatsucker  in  nearly  all  tongues,  from  the  Greek 
Aiyotf^Xof,  Latin  Caprimulgus^  Italian  Succiacapre^  Spanish  Chota- 
£<ibraSy  French  Tette-c^rc,  down  to  the  German  Zie^nmelker, 
attests  how  extensively  it  has  been  associated  with  goat-sucking.  A 
very  good  authority  says : 

"The  name  of  goat-suclcer  is  common  to  many  of  the  modern 
£uro[)ean  languages,  as  it  was  to  the  Grecian  and  Roman  of  old,  and 

^was  probably  taken  from  the  large  size  of  the  mouth,  which  must 
have  appeared  unnecessarily  large  for  any  ordinary  diet  In  Engbnd 
they  are  sometimes  called  Nightjars  or  eve-jars,  fern-owls,  or  night- 
hawks.  The  tumcs  show  the  popular  idea  of  affinity  to  the  birds  of 
prey,  which  Vigors,  Swainson,  and  other  ornithologists  insist  on  being 

'the  case,  and  which  certiinly  ap[iears  to  have  some  foundation  in 
naturt;,  the  resemblances  being  more  than  those  of  simple  analogy."  " 
Mr.  Ruskin  prettily  says : 

"  I  keep  the  usual  name  Nightjar,  euphonious  for  night-churr, 
from  its  continuous  note  like  the  sound  of  a  spinning-whccl.  ...  I 
had  at  first  thought  of  calling  it  Jiirundi)  noctuma  ;  but  this  would 
be  loo  broad  massing ;  for  although  the  creature  is  more  swallow  than 
owl,  living  wholly  on  insects,  it  must  be  properly  held  a  distinct 
species  from  both.  .  .  .  Owls  cannot  gape  like  constrictors;  nor  have 
swallows  whiskers  or  beards,  or  combs  to  keep  both  in  order  with, 
on  their  middle  toes,"  ' 

>  Sritiik  Birds,  p.  i8o.      »  JcrdoD,  1  p.  187.       '  iMt'i  AfelHU,  p.  aoi. 


144 


The  GentkntatCs  Magazine. 


Professor  A.  Newton  says  that  it  is  called  the  wheel-bird  from  its 
making  a  noise  UIec  that  of  a  spinning-vheeL'  Our  idea,  however^ 
rather  is  that  it  is  so  called  because  of  its  very  noticeable  and 
characteristic  wheel-like  motion  round  the  lops  of  certain  trees  and 
bushes,  as  we  have  mentioned. 

As  to  its  name  of  goat-sucker,  it  is  derived  from  the  universality 
of  the  early  notion  that  the  bird  really  did  suck  or  milk  the  goats* 
its  form  of  mouth  being  held  fitted  for  such  an  indulgence. 

A  much  more  probable  reason  for  the  name,  however,  is  the  habit 
of  the  bird  in  certain  situations  to  go  flying  about  the  recumbent 
herds — goats,  sheep,  or  even  kine — and,  with  the  utmost  dexterity, 
picking  up  and  off  certain  insects— favourite  insects  with  it— which 
gathered  about  them.  WTiite  of  Selborne  noted  this,  and  Waterton 
followed  suit,  and  celcbraled  it  finely,  apostrophising  the  bird  thus : 

"  Poor,  injured  little  bird  of  night,  how  sadly  hast  thou  sufferec^ 
and  how  foul  a  slain  has  inattention  to  facts  put  upon  thy  character  t 
Thou  hast  never  robbed  man  of  any  part  of  his  property  nor  deprived 
the  kid  of  a  drop  of  milk.  W'hen  tlie  moon  shines  bright  you  may 
have  a  fair  opportunity  of  examining  the  goat -sucker.  You  will  see 
it  close  by  tlie  cows,  goats,  and  sheep,  jumping  up  e\*cry  now  and 
then  under  their  bellies.  Approich  a  little  nearer.  Sec  how  the 
nocturnal  flies  go  tormenting  the  herd,  and  with  wliat  dexterity  he 
springs  up  and  catches  them  as  fast  as  they  alight  on  the  bellies,  legs, 
and  udders  of  the  animals." 

The  fishermen  of  the  Norfolk  Broads,  as  Mr.  Emerson  tells  us, 
call  the  Nightjar  the  "razor^rinder  "  because  of  the  noise  it  makes, 
and  one  of  ihcm  pictured  him  as  "  sittin'  along  o'  the  branch  as  if  he 
were  glued  to  it." 

W'iuLe  was  one  of  the  first  carefully  to  study  the  fern-owl,  as  he 
calls  it.    He  says : 

"  This  bird  is  most  punctual  in  beginning  its  song  exactly  at  tiie 
close  of  day,  so  exactly  that  I  have  known  it  strike  more  than  once 
or  twice  just  at  the  report  of  the  Portsmouth  evening  gun,  which  we 
can  hear  when  the  weather  is  still.  ...  I  have  always  found  that 
though  sometimes  it  may  chatter  as  it  flies,  as  I  know  it  does,  yet,  in 
general,  Jt  utters  its  jarring  note  .sitting  on  a  t>ough  \  and  I  have  for 
many  a  half-hour  watched  it  as  H  sat  with  its  under  mandible 
quivering.  ...  As  my  neighbours  were  assembled  in  an  hermitage 
on  the  side  of  a  steep  hill  where  we  drink  lea,  one  of  these  chum- 
owls  came  and  settled  on  the  cross  of  that  little  straw  ediiice  and 
began  to  chatter,  and  continued  his  note  for  many  minutes ;  and  we 

>  VUHcnofy  of  Bh^t,  UL  (t.  6y^ 


Siudy  of  Nightjars. 


were  an  struck  with  wonder  to  6nd  tluLt  the  organs  of  that  little 
aninuU,  when  put  in  motion,  gave  ft  sensible  vibration  to  (he  whole 
boildiiig.'' 

IV. 

If  you  go  and  sit  in  certain  places  favoured  by  it,  quite  still,  in 
the  twilight,  you  will  be  sure  to  see  it  circling  round  the  tops  of  tbo 
Trees  it  favoars — firs  and  oais  and  hazel  stubs— and  you  will  be  iurc; 
when  you  do  not  see  the  bird>  to  hear  its  peculiar  tumhf  rnonotonout 
chur-r-r,  chur-r-r,  something  like  a  telegraph  instrument  as  luu  l)cen 
well  said»  or  occasionally  striking  its  wings  across  its  back|  making  an 
odd  sound  as  it  silently  wings  its  way,  with  wide  gape,  ready  to  idm 
the  moths  and  beetles  and  other  night-flying  insects,  in  which  proceu 
it  is  much  helped  by  a  kind  of  glutinous  secretion  with  which  it  co\'er» 
the  greater  part  of  its  mouth  and  the  inside  of  the  bristles  or  quills, 
on  which  the  insects  ore,  so  to  speak,  glued  as  soon  as  they  touch. 
If  it  comes  dose  to  you,  and  notices  you  in  flight,  it  is  not  unlikely 
that,  by  a  sudden  striking  of  its  i^nngs,  in  some  way  special  to  Itself, 
over  its  back,  you  will  hear  one  of  the  most  ghostly  sounds,  and 
cease  to  wonder,  as  you  had  done  before,  at  the  superstitious  fou  felt 
at  these  sounds  by  the  rustics  in  many  places,  tJiough  the  main  pur- 
pose of  this,  some  think,  is  to  frighten  certain  moths  and  beetles  from 
their  hiding-places. 

Instead,  however,  of  being  an  enemy  to  formers  or  foresters  it  is; 
as  said  already,  one  of  their  greatest  friends,  for  it  destroys  both  the 
eggs  and  the  larvae  of  many  insects  which  are  very  destructive  to 
some  plants  and  to  the  wood  of  some  trees— heavy  beetles  among 
them,  and,  more  especially,  the  cockchafer,  Macgillivray  found 
that  it  devoured  certain  caterpillars,  and  Sccbohm  held  that  it  ato 
slugs ;  as  neither  of  these  are  flying  creatures,  but  are  frequently  to 
be  found  in  crevices  or  covered  over  with  earth,  this  lends  some 
cotmtenancc  to  Dr.  Bowdler  Sharpe's  suggestion  that  the  pectinated 
claw  may  be  for  service  in  this  way— that  is,  scratching  up  earth  to 
get  at  this  prey. 

It  has,  too,  a  habit  of  circhng  round  tlie  tops  of  certain  trees. 

Mr.  Meyer,  in  his  "  Birds  of  Great  Britain,"  has  noticed  in  a 
felicitous  manner  some  of  the  habits  and  motions  of  the  Nightjars 
He  writes : 

"When  in  pursuit  of  thdr  prey,  which  chiefly  consists  of  moths 
and  other  nocturnal  insects,  we  have  seen  ihcm  fly  round  a  bush  or 
tree  as  a  moth  does  round  the  flame  of  a  candle,  or  like  the  swallows 
in  iweeping  round  high  and  low,  and  falling  over  in  the  manner  of 


I 


I 


146 


Tlie  Gentkmads  Magazine, 


tumbler  pigeonsi  or  rolling  in  the  air  like  a  ship  at  sea  or  a  kite  in  a 
changing  wind.  It  is  beautiful,  indeed,  to  watch  the^e  birds  and 
easy  to  approach  tlicm  very  nearly,  as  they  seem  to  take  hardly  any 
notice  of  an  observer,  and  where  they  have  a  brood  the  pair  will  fly 
so  close  that  the  wind  produced  by  the  movement  of  their  wings  may 
be  plainly  felt."  ^ 

Mr.  Meyer  is  perfectly  right  in  this — a  movement  which  I  have 
observed  hundreds  of  times  ;  and  in  writing  of  Mr.  Kcarlon's  "  Birds 
and  Uieir  Nests  "  shortly  afler  its  publication  I  pointed  out  this  fact 
to  him  as  being  a  characteristic  one  about  the  bird,  in  addition  to 
its  mode  of  hunting  over  open,  fern,  or  whortleberry  clad  slopes.  Wiite 
of  Selbornc  also  noticed  this,  speaking  of  its  flying  round  the  oaks. 
"Fern-owls,"  he  wrote,  "have  attachments  to  oaks,  no  doubt  on 
account  of  food." 

When  speaking  about  the  gummy  saliva  with  which  the  Nightjar 
now  coats  or  lines  the  inside  of  its  moutli,  more  especially  when 
hunting  during  the  brooding  season,  so  much  was  suggested  that  we 
could  not  then  possibly  say  all  we  wished  to  say  without  breaking 
the  thread.  Tliat  gummy  saliva  points,  in  our  idea,  to  much.  The 
Nightjar,  which  certainly  in  some  traits  resembles  the  swallows,  was 
once  a  nest-builder  like  them,  and  used  this  saliva  to  aid  it  in  the 
firming  of  its  nest ;  but  owing  to  changes  and  the  increasing  difficulty 
of  finding  sufficient  food  in  the  short  hours  it  has  for  hunting,  it  now 
needs,  at  all  events  in  the  breeding  season,  to  economise  this  gummy 
saliva  for  the  great  purpose  of  aiding  it,  not  so  much  to  catch  the  food, 
OS  to  keep  it  secure  in  its  mouth  till,  with  it,  the  bird  can  feed  its  young 
ones.  And  to  make  this  quite  plain  we  must  refer  to  certain  things 
in  the  tongue  of  these  as  well  as  of  some  other  insect-eating  birds. 

V. 
The  tongues  of  almost  all  insect-eaters  bear,  towards  the  base, 
numerous  papillce — blunter  or  more  spiny — and  the  object  of  these  ap- 
pears to  be  to  work  the  foodaulomaticallytowards  the  gullet.  Further- 
more, there  is  often  a  plenteous  supply  of  sharp,  back wardly -directed 
points  about  tbe  glottis— all  there  that  tlic  food  may  be  aided  to  glide 
safely  past  the  windpipe  and  swallowed  while  the  bird  is  in  flight. 
The  tongues  of  owls,  some  of  which  arc  insect-eaters  as  well  as  mice- 
and  bird-eaters,  are  uitermediate  between  those  of  the  goat-suckers 
and  the  diurnal  birds  of  prey,  being  rather  fleshy  and  armed  with  small 
spines  on  the  posterior  half.  This  wc  learn  from  that  admirable  bird 
anatomist,  Mr.  Lucas^  of  the  Smithsonian  Institution,  Washington. 
'  Biritt  U.  p.  191. 


A  Stmfy  0/ 


147 


I 


I 


^     will 
■     any 


TbetoBgoes  of  the  woodpeciea  an  dighdy  bwbcd  on  ciibersida 
■t  IkK  txEK  sod  «i&  the  nppcz  sBrfKX  covered  with  l»ckimn%MSiivcte<d 
SfmcA  s>  minme  that  it  needs  a  magoiiying  gjbss  lo  aee  tbcm 

Tbe  tODgae  of  Ibe  N«gfa^,  being  rttf  dt&akdf  so  baibe4  u 
fliBiidiwnblyadiptedtoitsaiiodeorprociiringfoodand  feedir^as 
it  fie&.  Bat  viiieD  it  has  its  jtNtog  to  feed  and  does  not  wish  to 
•■■liw  vfaat  it  catcbes  in  its  ftjgfat,  k  mast  have  means  of  slopping 
or  Rtai^ng  the  action  of  these  papOhe,  mhkh,  ooce  tooched,  voold^ 
so  to  say,  automaticallj  work  ibe  food  towards  the  gullet  Ttus 
mart,  of  course,  be  the  case  with  all  birds  of  this  ukscct-fcoding  class, 
and  oor  opinioa  is  that,  then  more  especially,  the  guiu  is  required  lo 
fix  the  insects  caught  in  the  mouth,  so  that  the  action  of  these 
papflfae  nay  not  be  excited  by  touch,  and  that  without  this  gum — at 
that  time  more  especially,  and  tolerably  hbentlly  secreted  too — it  could 
not  succeed,  or  at  all  e\-enis  succeed  nearly  so  well,  in  keeping  intact 
the  prey  caught  in  its  coroparatit'ely  short  twilight  or  crcning  hunting 
mofcment  for  its  young  ones. 

VI. 

Tbe  Nightjar  makes  no  nest,  but  b}*s  its  ^gs  in  a  slight 
depression  on  tbe  bare  ground  in  the  sand,  or  on  the  dry  grass 
and  twigs  at  the  foot  of  a  trec^  in  whidi  it  diiefly  lies,  the  eggs 
— generally  two  and  never  more,  and  sometimes  indeed  only  one — 
being  of  a  colour  so  like  to  that  on  which  they  arc  placed  that  the)'  arc 
not  easily  recognised.  They  arc  pcarly-whitc  at  base,  with  leaden 
streaks  and  moltlings  of  dusty  brown  and  umber,  the  very  colour  of 
the  decaying  vegetation  of  the  heathy,  ferny,  or  waste  land  it  favours. 
One  may  go  past  them  over  and  over  again,  and  even  tread  on  them, 
without  having  seen  them.  They  are  as  wondrously  protected  w 
any  eggs.     And  yet  Dr.  Russel  Wallace  has  these  remarks  on  this 

inl: 

"  Many  other  birds  lay  their  white  eggs  in  open  nests,  and  these 
a/Iotd  some  very  interesting  examples  of  the  varied  modes  by  which 
concealment  may  be  attained.  All  the  duck  tribe,  the  grebes,  and 
the  pheasants  belong  to  this  cbss,  but  these  birds  Iiavu  all  the  habit 
of  covering  their  eggs  with  dead  leaves  and  other  material  whenever 
they  leave  the  nest  so  as  cflcctually  lo  conceal  them.  Other  birds, 
as  tltc  short-eared  owl,  the  goat-sucker,  the  partridge,  and  some  of  the 
Australian  ground  pigeons,  lay  their  white  or  pale  eggs  on  the  bare 
soil ;  but  in  these  cases  Uie  birds  tliemselvcs  arc  protectively  coloured, 


248 


Th$  Gentleman's  Magazine, 


so  that  when  sitting  they  are  almost  invisible ;  but  they  have  the  habiL 
of  sitting  close  and  almost  continuously,  thus  effectually  concealing 
their  eggs." 

But  how  can  it  properly  be  said,  as  Dr.  Wallace  says  above,  that 
our  Nightjar's  eggs  are  white  or  pale  ?  They  are  blotched  and  spotted 
exactly  like  the  soil  or  dried  grass  or  fern  on  which  they  may  be  laid, 
and  are  not  white  or  pale. 

The  bird's  devices  to  decoy  any  intruder  from  its  eggs  or  young 
are  really  wonderful.  It  will  flutter  and  circle,  and  trail  itself,  as  if 
on  the  lips  of  its  broken  wings,  along  the  ground,  will  feign  to  have 
wounded  itself  or  been  wounded,  and  in  some  cases  for  a  short  time 
will  lie  quite  still,  as  though  dead»  till  you  advance  close  to  it,  and 
then  it  is  off  again,  as  if  half-he!pless  with  broken  wing.  The 
^shortness  of  its  legs  enables  it  apparently  to  roll  over  and  rest  for  a 
■  inoment  on  the  tips  of  its  wings,  as  it  were.  Very  probably  it  will 
succeed  in  its  devices,  unless  you  are  very  experienced  and  expert 
Indeed,  it  will  try  to  frighten  you,  and  will,  as  if  by  conscious 
mimicry,  assume  its  most  hawk -like  aspect,  and  brush  suddenly  right 
Against  your  face^  as  if  it  knew  that  thus  it  might  repel  where  other 
means  bad  failed. 

When  sitting  on  eggs  the  bird  has  the  power  of  assuming,  in  a 
kreally  striking  and  wonderful  way,  the  appearance  of  a  rude  stmnpi 
and  as  its  eyes  alone  would,  by  their  clearness,  destroy  this  illusion, 
the  instinct  of  closing  or  almost  closing  them  when  anyone  comes 
near  is  brought  into  play— an  instinct  which  the  young  ones,  from  the 
very  egg  c\*cn,  seem  to  share. 

Whence  come  these  wonderful  instincts,  this  special  knowledge 

I  so  well  applied  and  so  well  fitted  to  secure  the  existence  of  this 

t  creature,  so  much  exposed  as  it  would  seem  in  other  ways?    No  one 

can  tell ;  but  in  it  the  protective  resources  which  arc  found  in  the 

klapwings  and  other  birds  are  developed  to  the  full,  though  from  its 

greater  rarity,  its  seclusion  in  wooded  areas  or  bushy  slopes,  and  its 

nocturnal  habits,  there  are  comparatively  few  who  have  observed 

tthem. 

Mr.  Norgate  tells'  how,  on  August  6  at  Beeston  R^is,  he  found 
a  young  Nightjar  about  the  size  of  a  starling  and  without  feathers. 
*  An  old  Nightjar  fluttered  away  from  it  along  the  ground,  apparently 
|carrying  something  about  the  size  of  the  young  one  in  its  mouth. 
)n  returning  to  the  spot  I  found  the  old  bird  and  two  young  ones. 
Two  or  three  days  afterwards  I  looked  in  vain  for  them,  and  suppose 
he  old  one  had  lemOT'cd  them  both." 

•  Z90i«gisi^  1884. 


A  Study  of  Nighijars. 


149 


He  also  tells  of  Mr.  Baker,  Cambridge,  and  Mr.  Qough 
Newcomc,  at  Feltwell,  finding  a  dutch  of  two  Nightjar's  eggs  j  that 
Mr.  Baker  touched  one  and  wished  to  take  them  away,  but  left  them 
tni  he  should  return.  Mr.  Newcome  said  the  old  one  would  remove 
them  after  handling,  and  when  ihey  returned  the  eggs  were  gone. 

"On  the  other  hand,  last  year,  when  a  Nightjar  was  hatching  and 
rearing  a  second  clutch,  with  the  assistance  (a  very  close  company) 
of  two  older  young  ones,  near  my  house,  she  was  visited  and 
disturbed  day  after  day  for  weeks,  but  I  could  never  sec  that  the 
young  were  shifted  more  than  a  yard  or  two  ;  possibly  they  crawled 
that  distance  when  hungry  to  meet  the  mother,  for  they  are  much 
more  active  with  their  feet  than  they  appear  to  be  before  they  are 
disturbed.  After  the  young  were  able  to  fly  a  few  yards  they  returned 
to  about  the  same  spot  where  they  were  hatched.  My  attention  was 
called  to  this  double  brood  on  July  13,  when  a  gamekeeper  stated 
he  had  seen  two  young  '  night-hawks  *  about  a  fortnight  ago,  and 
told  me  where  to  find  them,  which  I  did  the  same  day.  Three 
Nightjars  fiew  up  from  the  same  spot.  The  two  young  ones  were 
greyer  and  lighter  in  colour  than  the  old  bird,  which  feigned  lameness 
considerably,  fiuttering  along  the  ground,  and  often  alighdng  very 
near  roe. 

**  On  looking  at  the  place  whence  they  rose,  I  found  two  Nightjar's 
^s  much  sat  upon  ;  one  was  chipped  The  next  day  I  saw  the 
old  female  and  two  young  ones  fly  up  together  from  the  two  ^gs. 
The  same  day,  at  a  few  hundred  yards'  distance,  I  found  another 
female  Nightjar  sitting  on  two  downy  young  ones,  about  three  days 
old.  On  the  19th  I  inspected  the  double  brood  and  again  saw  the 
old  one  fly  off  from  two  very  small  downy  young  ones,  the  eggs  being 
hatched  and  the  eggshells  lying  near. 

"  I  did  not  see  the  fledged  young  of  the  former  brood  on  the 
19th,  but  the  next  day  one  of  them  flew  up  with  the  mother  from  the 
newly-hatched  young  ones. 

"On  August  7  I  saw  the  old  one  and  the  two  last  hatched  young 
ones  fly  from  the  spot  where  they  were  hatched,  or  within  a  yard  or  two 
of  it,  for  they  had  shifted  iheir  home  a  few  feet  now  and  then.  I  also 
saw  a  fourth  bird— evidently  one  of  the  older  young  ones  of  the  former 
brood — fly  from  a  spot  about  three  yards  from  the  others. 

"  I  never  saw  more  than  two  Nightjar's  eggs  in  one  clutch,  but  I 
have  beard  of  a  brood  of  three  young  ones  found.  ...  On  June  29, 
j8j6,  in  Hockering  Wood,  I  saw  a  female  Nightjar  sitting  on  her 
two  young  ones,  which  were  nearly  feathered.  The  old  bird,  on  my 
approach,  remained  motionlcssi  except  that  it  closed — or  nearlY 


I50 


The  GtnilematCs  Magazine. 


closed — its  large  eyes,  or  at  any  rate  that  eye  that  I  could  see,  as  if 
it  was  aware  that  its  eyes  were  the  most  conspicuous  part  of  it." 

And  Mr.  Norgate,  in  view  of  all  the  facts  narrated  in  that 
admirable  article,  thus  sums  up  his  results  : 

"The  foregoing  notes  show  that  the  Nightjar  arrives  here  in  the 
second  week  in  >ray,  or  earlier,  and  lays  its  two  eggs  as  early  as  the 
list  week  in  May,  and  as  late  as  the  first  week  in  July,  or  later,  as 
some  of  those  mentioned  were  found  unhatched  in  the  first  week  in 
August ;  that  its  young  are  hatched  pretty  early  in  June,  and  are 
nearly  able  to  fly  by  the  28th  of  that  month ;  that  it  occasionally 
raises  more  than  one  brood,  one  brood  apparently  assisting  in 
keeping  the  eggs  of  a  later  brood  warm ;  that  the  late  brood  fly  well 
by  the  first  week  in  August ;  and  lastly,  that  the  Nightjar  remains 
here  till  the  middle  of  September,  and  has  been  seen  on  the  wing  as 
late  as  the  middle  of  October." 

Mr.  J,  H.  Gumcy  says  that  he  feels  sure  the  Nightjar  has  two 
broods  in  Norfolk.^ 

VII, 

The  Nightjar,  though  pretty  widely  distributed  in  our  country,  is 
very  capricious  as  to  the  spots  that  suit  it.  In  most  of  the  home 
counties — that  is,  the  counties  immediately  round  Ixindon — it  is  found. 
Wimbledon  Common,  at  certain  secluded  parts,  is  visited  ;  Holm- 
wood  Common,  in  Surrey,  is  a  good  spot  for  study ;  and  at  Epsom 
and  all  round  Leith  Hill,  and  along  the  Surrey  hills  everywhere 
thereabout,  ample  opportunities  for  observation  and  study  of  its 
habits  present  themselves  ;  and  many  a  twilight  hour  near  Leith 
Hill,  in  Mosse's  Wood  and  in  Mr.  Pennington's  coppices  and  park, 
have  I  lain  and  watched  it  on  summer  nights  in  years  bygone  ;  and 
never  were  hours  of  mine  belter  spent  or  more  fully  rewarded.  It 
visits  some  parts  of  Kent  and  Essex,  and  the  southern  portion  of 
Herefordshire  and  Wilts,  Yet  very  often  in  places  which  would 
seem  quite  as  suitable  for  it  >*ou  search  for  it  and  do  not  find  it. 
If  you  do  catch  a  gh'mpse  of  it  on  tree-branch  or  rail  or  weathered 
post-top,  you  will  see  that  its  bright,  clear,  wide-open  eyes,  by 
instinct  it  closes  to  mere  slits.  It  is  very  fond  of  dusting  itself  in 
tlie  cart  tracks  of  roadways.  Often  have  I  seen  it  doing  this  near 
Cold  Harbour,  Dorking,  and  at  Chiiworlh,  and  down  near  Haslemcrc. 
The  young  ones  newly-hatched  have  by  instinct  the  same  power  or 
knowledge,  and  close  the  little  eyes  to  mere  slits.  They  are  feathered 
with  soft  downy  first  feathers,  and  can  run  soon  after  batching. 
*  ZMhgisIt  1S83,  p.  439. 


A  Study  of  Nightjars. 


J5« 


vnt 

Various  theories,  as  wc  have  seen,  have  been  advanced  to  account 
ror  the  long  pectinated  middle  claw,  some  holding  that  it  Is  for  the 
purpose  of  cleaning  the  feathers,  the  shortness  of  its  beak  [naking 
the  mouth  hardly  effective  for  this  purpose.  Dr.  Bowdler  Sharpc 
tells  that  his  friend  Dr.  Giinther  had  kept  young  Nightjars  in  confine- 
ment, and  had  never  noticed  tliem  use  this  claw  for  anything  but  to 
scntcb  on  chair  or  floor  where  they  chanced  to  be.  But  I  would 
lay  zkO  weight  on  any  such  obsenation  of  young  creatures  in  confuic- 
ment,  and  for  a  very  good  reason,  even  though  Dr.  Giinther  reported 
iL  Dr.  Bowdler  Sharpe,  however,  led  to  it  by  tins  suggestion,  thinks 
U  may  be  a  useful  appendage  for  scratching  or  distributing  the  cnrtli 
for  the  purpose  of  seeking  its  food. 

Dresser  thinks  that  the  pectinated  claw  is  for  disengaging  iJic 
hooked  feet  of  beetles  from  the  bill,  to  enable  the  bird  to  swallow 
tbem.^  This  same  pectination  is,  however,  found  more  or  less  in  the 
cbws  of  different  species,  the  bittern  and  gannet,  which  have  no 
bristles  at  the  base  of  the  bill,  and  the  herons  and  barn-owls.  All 
these  birds  arc  fish-  or  flesh-  or  offal -feeding,  and  our  idea  is  that  in 
all  these  cases  the  pectinated  claw  has  to  do  with  cleaning  the  mouth 
from  floury  dust  panicles  adhering  in  consequence  of  the  gummy 
saliva  mote  or  less  apt  to  cover  It  as  the  food  Is  passed  down. 


IX. 

le  Nightjar  does  not  stay  long  with  us.  It  does  not  arrive  liH 
the  middle  of  May,  one  of  the  latest  reluming  migmnts,  and  it 
ckparts  usually  early  in  September,  though  it  is  sometimes  un- 
accountably later  than  this  in  certain  localities.  But,  generally,  it 
may  be  said  that,  if  it  comes  later  than  the  nightingale,  it  goes  wriih 
it  to  softer,  sunnier  cUmes,  where  some  supply  of  its  favourite  food 
may  still  be  found.  It  does  no  more  than  by  its  eggs  and  rear  its 
brood  ;  then  it  migrates.  How  the  **  little  pinch  of  down,"  grown  to 
some  semblance  of  the  parent  bird^  manages  the  long,  long  flight  if 
a  mystery  \  but  it  does. 

Mr.  Howard  Saunders  says  that  eggs  of  the  Nightjar,  which  usually 

leaves  in  September,  have  been  found  as  late  as  August  1 2.*   In  that 

case,  if  the  adult  bird  stayed  to  hatch  the  eggs  and  rear  its  young 

ones,  it  could  not  have  migrated  till  the  beginning  of  October.    X 

•  BirJj^  Iv.  adl«e.  *  MohuhI,  p.  258, 


«s» 


The  GcntUntans  Magazine, 


once  saw  two  Nightjars  near  I^cith  Hill  m  the  middle  of  October, 
and  once  I  saw  one  near  Clul  worth — on  the  main  road,  of  all  places  I 
— on  October  lo,  the  season  that  year  having  up  to  then  remained 
exceedingly  mtld  and  warm. 

This  fact  is  rather  against  than  in  favour  of  UTiitc  of  Selbome's 
assertion  that  invariably  "  each  pair  breed  but  once  in  a  summer." 

But,  as  in  all  other  cases,  much  must  be  due  to  special  circum* 
stances,  to  air  and  climate,  in  the  determination  of  dates  of  migratioD ; 
for  Mr.  Cecil  Smith,  in  his  "Birds  of  Guernsey,"  cites  Miss  Carey's 
report  in  the  "2^1ogist"  for  1872,  of  the  Nightjar  having  remained 
in  the  island  till  October  16,  and  he  says  he  had  himself  killed  one 
as  late  as  November  12 ;  this  bird  had  its  stomach  crammed  with 
small-winged  blackbeetles  (not  house  beetles).  These  dates  are 
much  later  than  the  Nightjar  usually  remains  in  England,  though 
Yarrcll  notices  one  in  Devon  as  late  as  November  6,  and  one  in 
Cornwall  on  November  27.  Colonel  Irby,  on  the  report  of  Fabier^ 
says  the  Nightjars  cross  the  Straits  of  Gibraltar,  on  their  southward 
journey,  from  September  to  November. 

Macgillivray  says  that  the  whirring  sound  is  produced  when  the 
bird  is  sitting.  "  After  having  been  engaged  for  twenty-eight  minutes 
in  capturing  his  prey,  and  whistling  now  and  then  whilst  doing  so,  he 
sat  upon  the  top  of  a  tree  and  whirred  six  minutes  without  inter- 
mission." This  was  on  a  Wednesday  evening,  June  5.  As  WTiite 
said,  when  flying  it  utters  frequently  a  peculiar  note.  Mr.  Seebobm 
has  rendered  this  as  to-ic  co-U^  but  to  our  ears  was  rather  more  of 
£^U  co-it. 


Mr.  MacIIwrailh,  in  his  useful  and  valuable  *' Birds  of  Ontario,"' 
quotes  the  following  lines  from  what  he  calls  "  the  unromantic 
plains  of  Chatham  "  : 

With  half-closed  e^es  and  quivering  boom. 
Descending  Uiro'  the  deepemog  gloom, 
like  plunuDCt  filing  firom  the  iky, 
'W'here  some  poor  moth  xoay  vsinly  txy 

A  goal  to  wia— 
He  holds  him  with  his  glittering  eye. 

And  scoops  him  in. 

Taking  this  fact  of  the  closing  of  the  eyes  when  an  intruder  draws 
near,  and  looking  through  the  merest  slit,  along  with  this  other  iact 

'  P.  «56. 


A  Study  of  Nightjars, 

that,  when  bunting,  it  really  does  half-close  its  eyes,  as  is  told  us  in 
the  Chatham  verse,  I  have  often  thought  that,  as  in  the  case  of  many 
short-sighied  people,  it  gains  clearness  of  vision  for  small  things  not 
just  quite  nearband  by  this  drawing  together  of  the  eyelids;  and  in 
this  too,  as  much  as  in  anything  else,  may  He  the  reason  that,  when 
hunting,  it  will  allow  you  to  come  so  very  near  to  it  that  the  "  wind 
produced  by  the  movement  of  its  wings  may  even  be  plainly  felt."  I 
have  stood  on  the  ferny  slopes  above  Cold  Harbour,  near  Leith  Hill, 
and  seen  it,  if  one  may  use  the  phrase,  "quartering  "  the  ground  in 
a  peculiar  triangular  manner — by  double  zigzags,  so  to  say.  Standing 
quite  still  at  one  point,  the  bird  would  sometimes  pass  me  so  close 
on  the  side  that  I  felt  the  wind  of  its  wings,  and  then  after  the  lapse 
of  a  few  minutes,  it  passed  mc  on  the  other  side,  in  this  very 
peculiar  process  of  "  quartering,"  about  which  there  can  be  no  doubt 
whatever.  The  flight  being  silenced  or  softened  by  swathes  of  soft 
feathers  under  the  wings,  as  we  have  seen,  this  adds  much  to  its 
apparent  "  buoyancy  of  flight "  which  Mr.  Dewar  has  well  celebrated. 
"  The  buoyancy  of  the  Nightjar's  flight  surpassed  that  of  any  bird  I 
bad  ever  seen ;  it  was  full  of  grace."  ^ 

XI. 

As  in  the  cases  of  many  other  species  of  birds,  the  most  outri^ 
interesting,  and  curious  traits  are  found  in  foreign  species.  This 
makes  the  work  of  comparative  ornithology  very  attractive.  The 
further  you  extend  your  survey  in  other  lands— not  to  say  from 
China  to  Peru— the  morej[ remarkable^ things  you  meet — remarkable 
in  themselves  and  remarkable  also*  in  their  lelalions  to  conditions, 
circumstances,  &c 

My  studies  of  Nightjars  in  England,  precisely  as  in  the  case  of 
cuckoos  and  dabchicks,^led  mc  to  study  some  foreign  species.  I  first 
turned  to  India.  There,  I  found  that  in  the  Nilghri  Hills,  where,  in 
certain  parts  at  all  events,  the  sun  heat  is  much  greater  than  with 
us,  the  Nightjars  seemed  to  apprehend  and  to  ulflisc  this  fact,  and  to 
make  heat  directly  aid  them  injlhe  work  of  incubation.  This  is  the 
case  with  many  birdsjbcsidcs  some  of  the  mound  birds— with  the 
dabchicks  more  especially.  This  we  shall  find  well  borne  out  by 
the  report  of  a  most  reliable  authority,  who  has  made  very  raluable 
contributions  to  Indian  ornithology— Miss  Coclcburn,  who,  writing 
from  Khotagherry,  says  of  the  Nilghri  Nightjar  {Caprimulgus 
Ktlarti)  : 

**  This  Nightjar  nc%'cr  builds  a  nest,  but  laj-s'  her  eggs  (generally 

'   WtULsfi  iH  i/amfihirt  JIigkhn4st  p.  82. 
voifl  ccxcr.    sa  iOfS.  -^ 


<54 


Tfte  Genlktnans  Magazine* 


tiro  ia  number)  on  the  bare  ground^  and  occasionally  on  a  shelf  of 
rock,  where  there  is  not  the  slightest  appearance  of  anything 
resembling  a  bush  to  shade  the  bird  from  the  searching  rays  of  the 
sun  while  engaged  in  the  work  of  incubating.  She  evidt-nlly 
prefers  heat ;  and  for  this  purpose  chooses  very  warm  locaUiies. 
This  bird  is  often  contented  with  only  one  egg,  which  it  is  supposed 
to  have  the  instinct  to  remove  to  another  place  if  looked  at  too 
frequently  by  man.  The  business  of  hatching  is  api\arently  left 
rcntirely  to  the  female,  as  she  alone  is  seen  near  the  eggs.  The 
INightjar's  eggs  are  found  in  the  months  of  February,  March,  and 
April.  Some  of  them  are  perfectly  oval ;  others  are  thicker  at  one 
end  than  the  other.  I  know  of  no  bird's  eggs  whose  colours  (adc 
BO  very  much  if  kept  after  being  blown.  When  first  taken,  the 
prevailing  hue  is  a  beautiful  salmon-colour,  with  large  blotches  of  a 
darker  shade ;  but  in  a  short  time  they  lose  their  freshness." ' 

The  American  night-hawk,  as  we  shall  soon  see  from  Thorcau's 

account,  is  inclined  to  brood  its  eggs  on  bare  rocky  shelves  on 

•slopes.     In  this  it  resembles  apparently  Caprimulpts  Kelarti  of  the 

"Wilghri  Hills,  though  whether  the  same  motive  of  deriving  from  the 

'Sunheat  aid  to  incubation  is  a  motive  we  cannot  undertake  positively 

"to  say.    We  should  think,  however,  this  motive  in  America,  where 

the  heat  in  summer  in  certain  parts  is  intense,  is  very  likely  indeed 

with  such  a  bird  to  have  play. 

Some  of  the  Indian  Nightjars  produce  the  most  beautiful  eggs  of 

^1  the  species.     This  especially  applies  to  the  eggs  of  Caprimufgns 

,andamanensiSi  which  differ  from  those  of  any  other  Indian  species, 

•■"The  ground  colour,"  says  Mr.  Hume,*  "is  a  delicate  salmon-pink, 

mottled  and  streaked  and  ornamented  with  zigzag  and  hieroglyphic* 

like  lines  of  a  darker  and  somewhat  purplish  pink." 


xn. 

Nightjars  are  very  capricious  in  distribution  everywhere  as  well 
as  in  England.  Mr.  F.  Lewis  tells  in  the  "  Ibis,"  in  an  article  on  the 
Land  Birds  of  SalTamgamuwa  Province,  Ceylon,  that  he  has  observed 
a  very  curious  break  in  the  distribution  of  the  bird  there.  "It  is 
found  in  abundance  in  and  around  the  Uttle  village  of  Vcralupe, 
adjoining  the  town  of  Ratnapura  ;  but  half  a  mile  to  the  east  it  does 
not  occur,  and  a  little  distance  beyond  it  again  appears  in  numbers. 

*  Hume,  Ui.  p.  42.  The  fact  but  noted  abov*  U  ftDOtbcf  waxiung  ngunsl 
ilnaibiRe  egS^  loo  absolutely  from  spedmens  foimcJ  ia  caUoets— even  BcUlsh 
Mtueum  cafalaets. 

•  Siraj  FsatAtrXt  t  p.  471. 


A  Study  of  Nigkijan.  155 

I  can  find  no  exphnatioo  for  this  cazioos  pbenosKnon,  thoqgh  I 
bare  waicbed  tbe  cas«  with  curiosity  for  sotne  xeus.*  > 


Caprimstiius  mairurm^  or  higD'ti[3ed  gOAt^acker,  is  the  only  true 
Kig^tj&r  yet  discoreml  is  Ansbaln.  It  was  fiwod  at  Port  V-«^ftg«'-»_ 
by  ilr  Gilbert,  frcquentizig  the  open  forest,  and  socMtiiDes  ia  deoK 
thickets,  sheltering  itself  m>der  a  bo&h  or  tnfi  of  dead  leares  on  the 
surface  of  the  groand,  in  which  position  it  sts  so  doce  that  it  may 
be  almost  trodden  opon  before  making  any  eadeavoar  to  escape ; 
bat,  on  taking  wing,  it  flies  with  amaring  swiftness  and  with  a  agng 
motion,  suddenly  dropping  into  aone  near  place  of  conoeafancnL 
Ii  is  said  to  breed  in  October.  From  the  plate  given  by  Mr.  Gilbal^ 
(be  rictal  bristles  in  this  species  are  very  Icn^  and  incline  fiHwtrd 
when  the  bird  is  at  rest  In  general  habits  it  dosdy  resembles 
our  own  Nightjar  ;  but  Bronowski  says  that  it  invariably  lays  but  one 
cg^  and  lays  it  on  the  bare  ground. 

The  "more-pork,"  or  tawny  frogmouth  of  Anstralia,  more  es- 
pecsally  of  Western  Australia,  is  scientifically  Podarpts  sirigotdes^ 
«im)  is  perhaps  the  nearest  of  all  the  other  varieties  to  the  true 
N^htjar.  It  is  said  to  have  been  called  "more-pork  "  from  its  cry, 
wrfaich  was  thought  to  be  very  near  to  that ;  but  the  "  U'cstcm 
Australian  Museum  Guide  "  says  this  is  an  error — that  the  more- 
pork  call  is  really  the  cry  of  the  boobook  owl  {Xinok  600600A) 
which  was  at  first  wrongly  attributed  to  this  Nightjar.  At  another 
place  this  is  added  :  "  For  years  the  cry  of  the  boobook  owl  (*  more- 
pork  ')  was  attributed  to  the  tawny  frogmouth  {Fo<fargus\  which 
has  quite  a  different  note."*  The  tawny  frogmouth  has  some 
,  notable  characteristics,  just  departing  sufficiently,  and  no  more,  from 

^K  the  normal  traits  of  the  common  Nightjars.  This  makes  them  the 
^M  more  interesting  in  themselves  and  the  more  worthy  of  study.  My 
H  friend,  Mrs.  Pcggs,  who  has  resided  for  some  years  in  Roebuck  llay, 
H       has  described  the  bird  there  to  me  thus  : 

B  "  It  is  grey-green  ;  its  ftathers  appear  to  stick  quite  out  from  the 

H  bdrd,  and,  when  resting  on  a  tree  along  the  branch,  it  is  almost 
^k  indisdngnishable  from  a  portion  of  the  branch,  and  ttiis  habit  of 
H  itself  would  sulEce  to  class  the-  bird.  It  is  said  sometimes  to  lay  its 
H  two  eggs  or  its  one  egg  on  the  bare  ground,  and  tometimes  to  Cnd 
^H      accommodatioa  in  tbe  hole  of  a  tree  or  a  disused,  rough  tiest  of 

^1  ■  I^^  Jttly  1S9S,  p.  356.       *  Guidi  10  tt^itttm  AusiralioH  Miutum,  p,  27. 


IS6 


The  GeniiematCs  Magazine, 


another  bird.  The  '  more- pork '  cry  is  certainly  not  used  when  the 
bird  is  surprised  by  too  close  an  approach.  I  have  never  heard  ft 
give  that  cry  when  I  surprised  it ;  then  it  gives  a  very  different  cty, 
hard  to  dcsai be— something  between  a  hiss  and  a  squeak.  It  very 
seldom  takes  prey  on  the  vring,  but  searches  for  it  on  the  ground." 

Podar^s  strigoides  literally  means  "owl-like  swift-fool,"  and  the 
narac  "  frogtnouths "  has  been  given  to  the  whole  genera,  while 
one  variety  has  been  expressly  called  Balraehostoma^  so  that  the 
round  mouth  and  open  gape  is  found  in  them  all,  suggesting 
that  neither  one  nor  other  did  originally  search  for  its  main  food  on 
the  ground,  though  that  habit  has  developed  a  harder,  thicker  bill, 
the  presumption  being  that  they  all  originally  caught  it  in  flight  like 
our  own  true  Nightjars,  and  that  probably  differentiation  has  pro- 
ceeded in  this  way  along  with  increase  in  size,  &c.,  to  protect  the 
species  from  certain  owls  or  eagle  owls.  The  nocturnal  habit  has 
also  in  some  of  the  varieties  been  much  modified. 

If,  however,  Australia  has,  so  far  as  we  yet  know,  but  one  true 
Nightjar,  it  has  a  further  number  of  birds  closely  allied,  yet  with 
traits  of  the  owls — indicating  thus,  it  may  be,  a  link  between  these 
species.  In  structure,  plumage,  and  aspect  they  are  Nightjars,  the 
owl  affinities  lying  more  in  habit  than  in  appearance.  They  are 
called  owlet  Nightjars— one  of  them,  scientifically  ^i^otheUs  JVbvm- 
Holhnda^  departs  from  the  practice  of  northern  Nightjars  by  nesting 
in  holes  or  spouls  of  trees— more  particularly  of  the  gum-trees,  and 
in  perching  across,  not  parallel  to,  a  branch.  In  the  nesting  in 
holes  it  has  reached  a  habit  fixed  and  uniform,  which  with  the 
"  more-pork  "  is  as  yet  but  occasional.  Its  flight  ia  straight,  and 
not  at  all  marked  by  the  sudden  twists  and  turns  and  ligzags  that 
distinguish  the  Eiirojjcan  Nightjars.  B^ono^vski  tells  how  it  may  be 
disturbed  and  seen  by  tapping  at  the  lase  of  rotten  or  hollow  trees, 
when  one  or  other  of  tl^c  birds  will  put  its  head  out  of  the  hole,  just 
as  a  human  being  would  put  head  out  of  door  or  window,  on  any 
unusual  noise  being  heard,  to  see  what  is  the  mniier. 

Another  is  the  white-bellied  Nightjar,  ^^thetes  ieucogaster^  larger 
and  more  powerful  than  the  owlet,  and  strictly  nocturnal  in  its  habits, 
which  the  owlel  hardly  is. 

Dr.  Russel  Wallace  makes  reference  to  the  peculiar  habits  of  the 
Australian  /Wu/yn"— huge  goat-suckers,  which  build  nests  very  similar 
to  woodpigcons',  and  their  eggs  are  protected  much  as  the  wood^ 
pigeons*  are  >— but  unfortunately  he  does  not,  or  cftnnot,  tell  t» 
much  mote  of  thcra» 


A  Simdy  of  Nightjars^  157 

In  his  work  on  **  DistribotioD  of  Plants  and  Animals,"  Dr.  Rossd 
Wallace  tdb  ns  that  the  Nigh^axs  do  not  readi  New  Zealand,  irtuch, 
GODsideTing  that  the  species  in  seroal  of  its  varieties  is  well  repre- 
sented in  AostiaUa,  is  die  more  snrprisiDg.  Dr.  Wallace  also  tells 
us  of  a  new  and  rematkable  varietr  called  SteaiorMis,  irtiich  is  more 
rdated  to  tiie  goat-sndbos  dian  to  any  other  q»edes.  It  was  first 
disoOToed  by  Homboidt  in  a  caTera  at  Veoexuda,  and  it  has  since 
been  foond  in  caves  and  deep  laTines  in  Trinidad  and  otbo-  parts  of 
die  West  Indies.  The  most  remarkable  thing  about  it  is  that  it  is 
a  vegetable  feeder,  whidi  a  bird  that  has  bq^n,  as  the  more- 
poika  or  frogmooths  have  doo^  to  find  all  its  food  on  the  ground^ 
is  most  certainly  on  the  way,  in  a  modified  foshioo,  to  become. 

Dr.  Wallace^  in  his  "  DistributicHi  of  Plants  and  Animals,"  tells 
us  also  that  the  {rfants  of  New  Zealand  are  mostly  dull  in  colours  of 
flowers^  being  wind-  and  not  insect-fertilised,  and  be  adds  that  insects 
there  are  scarce:  This  would  account  for  the  lack  of  bright-coloured 
and  ccHispicuous  flowers,  as  well  as  for  the  absence  of  Ni^tjai^ 
idiicb^  if  they  were  there;  would  have  to  adopt  some  of  the  haluts 
of  ceitun  of  the  Australian  Nightjars,  and  cease  to  catch  prey  on  the 
wii^  and  to  search  for  it  on  the  ground,  so  becoming  more  and  more 
vegetable  feeders.  Thus  do  all  things  in  Nature  hang  together :  no 
sceated  w  bright-coloured  flowers  means  few  insects ;  no  insects 
means  no  purely  insectivorous  birds.  Nightjars  or  others,  just  as  Mr. 
Darwin  proved  that  where  there  were  old  maids  with  cat^  there  would 
be  plenty  of  humble  bees. 


XIV. 

The  common  night-hawk  of  America,  as  it  is  called  there,  and 
sometimes  the  Virginian  goat-sucker,  is  scientifically  Chorddia^ 
mrgiiiuiHuSt  and  is  very  dose  to  our  common  Nightjar.  Thoreau 
had  his  own  special  exp^ences  to  record  with  regard  to  it.  In  his 
Diaiy,  under  date  June  7,  we  find  him  writing : 

**  Visited  my  night-hawk  on  her  nest.  Could  hardly  believe  my 
eyes  when  I  stood  within  seven  feet  and  beheld  her  sitting  on  her 
eggs^  her  head  towards  me ;  she  looked  so  satumian,  so  one  with  the 
earth ;  so  sphinx-like,  a  relic  of  the  reign  of  Saturn,  which  Jupiter 
did  not  destroy,  a  riddle  that  might  well  cause  a  man  to  go  dash 

■  The  origin  of  this  wonl  is  u  follows :  xvH^f^^**^*  *  ttringtd  mnrickl 
fautnmeiit,  SftA^aeTening— which  shows  that  the  oiilier  obwrven  had  ■  fucy 
for  findiiig  nranc  In  the  note,  caUias  the  bird  "  ereQing  moiical  initniine&t." 


1S8 


Tim  Gcnihmans  Magazine^ 


his  head  against  a  stone.  It  was  not  an  actual  living  creature  of  tfie" 
air,  but  a  figure  in  stone  or  bronze,  a  fanciful  production  of  art,  like 
the  grjrphon  or  the  phcenlx.  In  fact,  with  its  breast  towards  me,  and 
owing  to  its  colour  or  size,  no  bill  perceptible,  it  looked  like  the  end 
of  a  brand  such  as  arc  common  in  a  clearing — its  breast  mottled  or 
alternately  waved  with  dark  brown  and  grey,  its  flat,  greyish,  weather- 
beaten  crown,  its  eyes  nearly  closed,  purposely,  lest  those  bright 
beads  should  betray  it :  with  the  slony  cunning  of  the  sphinx.  A 
fanciful  wurk  in  bronze  to  ornament  a  mantel.  It  is  enough  to  fill 
one  with  awe." 

Again,   under   date    July   22,   he  thus  speaks    of  the    young:^ 
bird: 

"One  of  the  night-hawk's  eggs  is  hatched.  The  young  is  exactly 
like  a  pinch  of  rabbit's  fur  or  down  of  that  colour,  dropped  on  the 
ground,  not  two  inches  long,  with  a  dimpling,  irregular  arrangement 
of  minute  feathers  in  the  middle,  destined  to  become  its  wings  and 
tail.  Yet  even  it  half-opened  its  eyes  and  peeped,  if  I  mistake 
not.  Was  ever  bird  more  completely  protected  both  by  the  colour 
of  its  eggs,  and  of  its  own  body  that  sits  on  them,  and  of  the  young 
bird  just  hatched  ?  Accordingly,  the  eggs  and  young  arc  but  rarely 
discovered.  There  was  one  egg  still,  and  by  the  side  of  it  this  little 
pinch  of  down  fluttered  oul,  and  was  not  observed  at  first ;  at  foot, 
down  the  hill,  had  rolled  half  the  shell  it  had  come  out  of  There 
was  no  callowness  as  in  the  young  of  most  birds.  It  seemed  a 
singular  place  for  a  young  bird  to  begin  its  life,  this  little  pinch  of 
down,  and  lie  still  on  the  exact  spot  where  the  egg  lay — a  flat,  exposed 
shelf  on  the  side  of  a  bare  hill,  with  nothing  but  the  whole  heavens, 
the  broad  universe  above,  to  brood  it  when  its  mother  was  away." 

This  name  of  Corddks^  however,  has,  with  the  newer  school  of 
ornithologists,  given  place  to  Caf>rimul^us  amen'canus ;  and  under 
this  designation  we  find  Prince  Buonaparte  writing  of  them.  He 
says  that  "  the  night-hawks  are  among  the  swallows  what  the  owls  are 
among  the  Falconida^  and,  if  we  may  be  allowed  the  expression,  tlie 
C.  amificanui  has  more  of  the  hirundine  look  than  the  others. 
When  in  woods  or  hawking  near  trees,  the  flight  is  made  in  glides 
round  the  tops  or  branches,  and  often  it  will  settle  for  a  few  seconds 
on  the  very  summit  of  the  leading  shoots.  The  eggs  are  of  a  dirty 
bluish  while,  with  blotches  of  dark  olive-brown.  During  incubation 
the  male  keeps  a  most  vigilant  watch  round.  In  wet  and  gloomy 
weather  these  birds  are  active  all  day,"  * 

Dr.  Elliot  Coues  says  that  if  they  do  not  circle  tree-tops  in  flight 

■  Wilson,  pp.  371  ftod  yi^ 


A  Sludy  of  Nightjars, 


«59 


for  capturing  prejr,  they  quarter  the  air ;  and  he  adds  that  one  of  the_ 
:  may  be  hatched  a  good  deal  sooner  than  the  olhcr.     "  I  one 

'^ found,"  he  states,  "an  intcnal  of  three  days  elapse  between  llie"^ 
batching  of  the  two  eggs  of  the  night-hawk.    Nuttall  fi})cak«  of  iho 
night  h^wk  sometimes  actually  visiting  towns,  and  then  sailing  round 
chimnc>'s  and  other  elevated  stalks  or  points  in  circles. 

The  whiP'Poor-wiU  is  more  familiar  to  us,  since  its  singular  cry 
or  call  is  often  referred  to  by  popular  writers  who  arc  not  called  on 
to  describe  the  bird  or  othcmisc  to  note  its  class  or  peculiarities  It 
has  been  at  diflerent  times  differently  ranged.  Dr.  Elliot  Coue 
writes : 

"  The  common  whip-poor-will  has  been  referred  back  to  the  old 
genus  Caprimutguu  >Vhilc  it  certainly  differs  from  the  chuck  will'iJ 
widow  type  of  Antrosiomus  in  not  having  the  rictal  bristles  garni-nhc 
with   lateral   filaments   and  is  not  very   obviously  different   frow^ 

\  Caprimulgxn  of  the  old  world,  it  may  be  best  to  keep  it  with 
AntrostomuSy  where  all  the  Kew  World  species  are  usually  referred, 
until  the  limits  of  the  respective  genera  arc  better  understood."* 

From  all  we  can  gather,  whip-poor-will  (C  vociftrm)  is  so  nearly 
allied  to  C.  iarolinemis  that  an  ordinary  observer  would  never 
distinguish  them.    Wilson  notes  how  in  the  evening  they  will  go 

F  skimming  on  the  grass  within  a  foot  or  two  of  a  person  as  if  never 

^  seeing  him,  the  eyes  so  intent  on  the  insects  hunted. 

In  the  lower  pan  of  the  State  of  Delaware  Kuttall  found  these 

.  birds  troublesomely  abundant  at  the  breeding  season.     It  was  the 

P  reiterated  cries  of  whip-poor-will,  whip-pcri-will,  issuing  from  several 
birds  at  the  same  time,  that  caused  such  a  confused  vociferation  as  at 

J  first  to  banish  sleep.'    Nuttall  notes  another  peculiarity  of  the  whip- 

riK30r-will,  and  tells  us  that  this  call,  except  on  moonlit  nights,  iaX 
continued  usually  till  midnight,  when  they  ceasCt  until  again  arouscdj 
for  awhile  at  the  commencement  of  twilight* 

Nuttall,  who  dearly  paid  much  and  close  attention  to  this  bird, 

^aIso  tells  us  that  the  whip-poor-will  is  the  only  Nightjar  which  hasj 
white,  unspotted  eggs  ;  and  that  both  male  and  female  take  part  ia  { 
Incubation.     The  young  of  this  variety,  as  of  the  night-hawks  and  i 
those  wc  have  in  England,  are  hatched  downy — in  this,  as  Dr.  E. 
Coues  remarks,  resembling  the  lower  order  of  birds,  and  not  the 
higher  with  which  they  are  associated.    Tliis  suggests  more  than  one 

^question — why,  for  instance,  a  bird  so  specialised  and  developed 
fthould  in  this  respect  make  itself  a  complete  exception,  so  high,  yet  \ 


'  Key,  p.  449. 
«  nu.  p.  74+. 


>  OmUMegy  ef  Vniitd  Staiti,  p.  379. 


]6o 


The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 


so  low,  in  this  matter,  which  is  no  doubt  correlated  with  its  now 
building  no  nest  whatever.  Only  the  more  prominent  parts  on  the 
young  are  covered  with  this  down ;  the  naked  parts  arc  covered  in 
three  or  four  da)'s,  the  inequality  of  the  distribution  of  this  down 
which  marlis  all  the  Nightjar  young,  gives  the  dimpling  character 
which  Thoreau  noted  in  the  young  night-hawk  when  first  seen  by  him. 

Mr.  Thomas  Macllwraiih  has  given  a  pretty  full  account  of  the 
night-hawks  and  whip-poor-wills  in  Canada.     He  says  of  the  latter  : 

"  It  is  seldom  seen  abroad  by  day,  except  when  disturbed  at  its 
resting-place  in  some  shady  part  of  the  woods,  when  it  glides  off 
noiselessly  like  a  great  moth.  .  .  .  Not  unfrequently  it  perches  on 
the  roof  of  a  farmhouse,  startling  the  inmates  with  its  cry,  which 
they  hear  with  great  distinctness.  This  is  the  only  song  of  the  whip- 
poor-wi]I»  and  it  is  kept  up  during  the  breeding  season,  after  which  it 
is  seldom  heard." 

Mr.  Nuttall  notes  thisabout  chuck-wiU's- widow  (C  Caro/inensis): 

It  commences  its  singular  serenade  in  the  evening  soon  after 
sunset,  and  continues  it  with  short  interruptions  for  several  hours. 
Towards  morning  the  note  is  renewed,  until  the  opening  dawn.  In 
a  still  evening  this  singular  note  will  be  heard  for  half  a  mile,  its  tones 
being  slower,  louder,  and  more  full  than  that  of  whip-poor-will.^ 

Audabon  celebrates  the  sensitiveness  of  this  bird  : 

"  When  the  chuck-will's-widow,  either  male  or  female  (for  each 
sits  alternately),  has  discovered  that  the  eggs  have  been  touched, 
it  ruffles  its  feathers  and  appears  extremely  dejected  for  a  minute  or 
two,  after  which  it  emits  a  low,  murmuring  cry,  scarcely  audible  to 
me,  as  I  lay  concealed  at  a  distance  not  more  than  eighteen  or 
twenty  yards.  At  this  time  I  have  seen  the  other  parent  reach  the 
spot,  flying  so  low  over  the  groimd  that  I  thought  its  tittle  feet  must 
have  touched  it  as  it  skimmed  along,  and,  after  a  few  low  notes  and 
some  gesticulations,  all  indicative  of  great  distress,  take  an  egg  in  its 
large  mouth,  the  other  bird  doing  the  same,  when  they  would  fly  off 
together,  skimming  closely  over  the  ground,  until  they  disappeared 
among  the  trees.  He  adds  that  the  eggs,  of  a  dull  oUvc  colour  with 
darker  specks,  are  about  the  size  of  pigeons'  eggs. 

Mr-  Gosse  makes  this  note ; 

"  It  wanted  but  a  few  minutes  of  midnight  when  suddenly  the 
clear  and  distinct  voice  of  the  chuck-will's-widow  rose  up  from  a 
pomegranate  tree  in  the  garden  below  the  window  where  I  was 
silling,  and  only  a  few  yards  from  mc.  It  was  exactly  as  if  a  " 
being  had  spoken  the  words." ' 

*  OnUtMf^,  p.  74a  '  Romsna  9/ Natmr«it  BiHory^  p. 


A  Simdy  0fNigiijmrs,  ifix 


WatCftOD  did  not  fcnet  to  uIhur.  kA  to  Frrnrf  on  jomc  5*^^*^ 
AiDoicui  ycciefc  In  tbe  wcopd  jwiiikj  Sd  Jfnamlmr&  and 
SnzO  he  writes: 

**  The  pfcttiljr  moflkd  r*™'"j**^^V- gp■^fTT%r^•.  TJartiM*  nffhr 
owlf  mmts  the  fantre  viooi  s  ocuuvisd  is  i^  *'*'^f 'f  cf  die  IsidB  flf 
day.  This  at  once  mnks  horn  as  a  ]o«s  of  die  joik:  xdood^  js^i&g 
ncams.  There  are  mne  ipcrJtshcre.  T^ie  '**'j^'^  *jjf-**y  "rtry 
the  siae  of  the  FngfiA  voodnwl  te  aj  b  sDJonsikadib  d&t^ 
hawing  ODoe  heard  i^  yoa  viO  Bcm- fo^  ]L  Hlben  zqptt  sbbk 
over  these  iiiiinrjMijtte  nilds^vfcfia  }pDeis  jfoor  hmoBBE^Tm 
wiD  hear  diic  goat-aidKr  hiiiriiiMig  Ske  one  id  dee^  dHDaem.  A 
stnuger  vonld  never  ccDcehc  31  tobeliiecryofainEd.  He  vouid 
say  it  1IM  the  deyailiug  voice  cfanadiu^iHPOBndaedTacaap,  cr  &e 
lastvaifingof  Niobe  far  her  poor  f^nVfam  i^Dce  J&e  was  moKid 
intostaae:  Snpiiosc yocndf in huydci*  soppwj  teypyafljaiia^ 
load  note  and  praooBoce '  Ha,  hi,  ha,  ha,  la,  ha,  ha,*  tacii  sole 
kmerand  lowtr  till  the  laA  is  scarcxily  heard,  pnxBmc  a  «*'^'*^'* 
betwiit  evay  note;  and  yoo  viQ  hzvr  Bosae  idea  cf  ihcanaaasfc^ 
the  hugest  goot-sodKr  in  Deaezaa. 

"  Four  odierqiedescl' the  soat-^zxia^'  wrrr-^at-t  tasut  w«di  » 
dtstinctiy  that  they  have  jecriicd  tfacarnaaoe*  fecm  &e«cascsK«* 
they  nttei;  and  absolntdy  benlder  die  sataogs  csi  his  anml  is 
these  paits.  The  most  toiniirai  ob>£  lia  dovs  ctuse  by  ycmr  dc«r, 
and  flies  and  a^^  three  or  fcior  jzidi  t^on:  y^ic,  as  yvD  ira3k 
along  the  road,  cxyin^  '  Who  are  y^s ;  -vbrj,  wijrj,  -viio  are  ywj  ? ' 
Another  bads  yoa  *  Woik  away ;  wodc,  vgric,  vcck  avay/  Atlibd  oics 
moamfiilly.'Willy-coaie'go;  WHj-WaEy-W^'j-ccaac^^^'  Aadloti^ 
op  in  the  ooontiy  a  fioonh  tdb  yoo  to  *  yfiap^fK^cm^wiB  ;  vfaiji^  *h)p, 
wUp-poor-nIL' 

"  Yoa  win  never  pemsMk  the  n«gzD  to  destroy  these  Lordi,  or  fet 
the  Indian  to  let  fly  hsanov  at  than.  They  are  birds  of  ooMxi  and 
reverential  dicad.  They  are  the  receptacto  for  dqancd  scwls  who 
conoe  back  again  to  eaxdi,  or  areesprtss^y  sentby  Jnniboor  Yalofaos 
to  hanm  cnid  and  baxdJieaited  mastery  and  iculiate  in|iiries  ttcemd 
from  dtenL* 

XV. 

Dr.  Freeman,  in  lus  interesting  book,  "Asbanti  and  Jaman,"  has 
a  good  deal  to  say  about  the  fibmrnffd  Nightjar  of  Wert  Africa, 
with  its  reoMikable  CTititandiffg  wing-liBathers.    These^  as  be  ttj^ 

«  Pp.  145^ 


l62 


The  Geniiemans  Magazine. 


arc  caused  by  the  quill  of  a  feaiher  from  the  carpus  of  each  wing 
being  developed  to  an  enormous  length — fully  t«*ice  as  long  as  the 
bird's  body.  He  was  perfectly  astonished  when  he  first  saw  the  bird 
flying.  It  seemed  that,  at  a  distance  from  the  bird,  at  each  side 
were  two  dark  bodies  like  butterflies,  or  some  other  insect,  and  about 
this  matter  at  niglit  he  could  by  no  means  satisfy  himself,  as  then  the 
elongated  quill  or  featlier  stalk  was  entiruly  invisible,  of  course. 
But  afterwards  he  came  upon  the  bird  through  the  day  because  of  a 
habit  it  has  of  frequenting  pathways,  and  there  it  would  sit,  with  the 
long  wing-feathers  directed  straight  up  above  it,  till  he  was  within  a  few 
j-ards  of  it,  then  fly  away,  to  advance  farther  up  the  path,  and  then 
sit  down,  to  go  through  exactly  the  same  process  as  before.  When 
silting  among  the  long  grasses,  which  sometimes  reach  as  high  as 
seventeen  feet,  and  long-stemmed  vegetation  with  feathery  tops,  this 
Nightjar's  filaracntcd  feathers  fall  in  well  with  the  general  uflcct- 
the  more,  as  with  our  own  Nightjars,  this  blid  tries  to  scratch 
a  depression  beneath  it— the  fiJamented  feathers  rising  up  straight 
over  its  back.  It  may  be  suggested  that  concealment  in  such 
retreats,  which  it  can  always  find,  is  tlu  reason  for  this  feather, 
development  At  all  events,  there  is  no  other  more  likely  explanatio 
as  yet  The  general  habits  of  this  Niglitjar  otherwise  very  closely" 
resemble  those  of  the  Nightjar  in  England,  which  we  know  best. 


XVI. 

My  old  friend,  Canon  Tristram,  was  so  good  as  to  answer  a 
query  of  mine  about  the  Nightjars  of  Palestine,  to  the  following 
effect :  "  So  far  as  I  had  any  opportunity  of  observing  the  habits  of 
the  Palestine  species  of  Nightjars,  they  do  not  in  the  slightest  degree 
vary  from  ours.  They  have  the  same  trick  of  lying  flat  on  a 
horizontal  rail  or  pole,  and  passing  for  a  piece  of  wood.  Thii  only 
eggs  I  took  were  on  the  bare  ground,  two  in  number.** 


There  are  yet  several  points  to  settle  about  our  common  Night- 
jar; so  that  young  ornithologists  who  will  specially  devote  themselves^ 
to  it.  and  not  grudge  to  give  summer  evenings  patiently  to  watch  and 
study  it,  have  sUU  chances  of  distinguishing  themselves  and  adding 
to  the  accepted  facts  about  a  bird  as  interesting,  strange,  weird,  and 
unaccountable  as  any. 


A  Study  of  Nightjars.  163 


APPENDIX. 

I.  If  we  knew  more  about  the  special  habits  of  diflerent  Tarieties  of  Ntghtjan* 
we  could  at  once  make  oar  sorvey  more  pro6taU]r  compantire,  and  perhaps 
Tcadi  come  secrets  of  difieientiation  or  variation.  Tbos  the  zigzag  turnings  and 
drdii^  in  flight,  or  "quarteiii^theair,**  are  common  to  all  of  the  true  Mightjan, 
while  those  which  have  departed  from  this  habit,  like  jEgstheUs  Neva  lUUandm, 
have  also  ceased  to  be  truly  noctnmaL  Ltttagasttr^  agsJn,  whidi  remains  noc- 
tnmal,  still  retains  these  marked  diaracteristjcs  in  ffigbt,  tbot^  mying  from  the 
Dormal  in  some  ways. 

X  Hare  those  Nightjars  which,  tike  the  so-called  Anstraltan  more-pork 
occastonally,  and  Mgotheks  Nova  HdUuida  systematically,  seek  their  food  on  the 
ground  andare  seldom  on  the  wii^,  been  modified,  and  how  Us,  in  bill  andwing* 
and  m  the  pectinated  toe  t— whldi  in  that  cue,  if  it  is  nsed  for  scratching  up  food 
in  earth,  snails,  gmbs,  &c.,  would  need  to  become  strongeraswcll  as  the  beak— n 
process  which,  we  believe,  has  aheady  proceeded  so  fitf  in  the  tawny  Irogmouth, 
and  perhaps  farther  stiU  in  ^gothtUi  Neva  Hollands. 

3.  An  important  question  arises :  What  modifications,  if  any,  have  been  effected 
in  the  young  from  the  nesting-in-hole  habits,  as  occasionally  in  the  so-called  more' 
pork,  and  absolutely  in  Mffithdes  and  the  Podargif  which,  as  Dr.  Wallace  telU  us, 
bnild  nests  like  wood-pigeons'?  Are  the  yom^  still  hatched  downy  or  to  the  same 
extent,  or  are  observable  modifications  to  be  noted  ?— the  highly  specialised  bird 
then  comii^  more  and  more  in  this  respect  to  rank  itself  with  tlie  hi^^er  Urds 
her^  while  filing  into  other  halats  more  like  some  <3S  the  lower  birds. 

4.  We  are  told  that  the  ^gs  of  the  whip-poor-wills  are  pure  white.  Is 
there  anything  special  to  this  class  in  nestii^  or  in  variation  of  habit  in  regard  to 
I^aces  in  which  they  lay  the  eggs,  since  they  are  not  colour-protected,  as  in  the 
case  of  most  other  Kightjais  which  lay  thdr  ^gs  on  the  bare  ground  ?  This 
observation  would  be  most  ioteresting  and  helpful  towards  a  theory  of  modified 
haUts  affecting  coloration  of  e(^ 

5.  The  males  of  some  species  appear  very  closely  to  share  the  iocubatlon  with 
the  females ;  in  others  this  is  not  so.  Is  there  in  this  difference  grounds  for 
pointil^  to  differences  in  de^'elopment  of  certain  parts,  or  is  this  either  way  un* 
arrompsnifd  by  any  modification,  however  slightly  marked  otherwise  ? 

ALEX.   H.   JAPP. 


1^4 


The  Geniiemans  Magazine, 


NAPOLEON   AND   PRINCE 
METTERNICH. 


PRINCE  METTERNICH  was  driving  in  Vienna  one  day  dunr 
the  Congress  of  1815,  when  the  horses  bolted,  the  carriage  was' 
overturned,  and  Mettcmich  was  thrown  into  the  roadway.  Finding 
he  had  no  bones  broken  he  picked  himself  up  and  walked  quietly 
away.  The  same  evening  he  met  the  King  of  Naples,  who  had  seen 
the  accidenL  "  How  horribly  frightened  you  must  have  been,"  said 
the  King.  "Not  at  all/'  answered  Mettcmich;  *' it  is  no  merit  of 
mine,  but  I  am  constitutionally  inaccessible  to  fear."  "  It  is  as  I 
thought,"  replied  the  King  ;  "you  axe  a  supernatural  being." 

The  man  who  had  learnt  in  his  youth  to  confront  Napoleon  wa 
naturally  an  object  of  awe  and  admiration  to  the  crowned  heads 
Europe.  Curiously  enough  Napoleon  himself  singled  out  the  man 
who  was  to  become  his  greatest  diplomatic  opponent.  When  Count 
Cobenzl  was  appointed  in  1S06  as  Austrian  ambassador  at  Paris, 
Napoleon  took  exception  to  the  choice  and  pointed  out  young 
Kcttemich  as  the  most  suitable  person  to  be  sent  to  his  CourL  It 
had  been  previously  decided  to  send  Mettemich  to  St.  Petersburg, 
actd  he  was  on  his  way  thither  from  Berlin  when  Napoleon 
signified  his  request.  Motternich  received  instructions  to  stop  at 
Vienna,  and  there  he  learned  that  his  destination  was  Paxis. 
Napoleon  took  a  pleasure  in  conversing  with  him  at  the  Sunday 
receptions  at  the  Tuileries,  when  the  whole  diplomatic  corps  would  be 
Assembled  €n  masst.  "  You  are  young,"  said  Napoleon,  "  to  represent 
so  old  a  country."  "Your  Majesty  was  only  my  age,"  replied 
^lettemtch,  "  when  you  fought  AuslerUtz." 

Mctternich  made  a  brilliant  success  in  Paris.  His  manners,  his 
address,  his  appearance  recommended  him  not  only  to  Napoleon, 
but  to  the  whole  Court  circle.  He  was  appealed  to  as  an  authority 
•on  all  matters  of  taste  and  etiquette.  No  ceremonies  or  enlcrtain- 
Tnents  were  undertaken  without  his  advice.  He  played  the  rdle  of 
trifler  to  perfection,  and  while  he  appeared  to  be  immersed  In  gaieties 


Nt^olnm  mmd  Pnme*  MtUetmuJk.  i6$ 

be  «>s  oiqilajed  in  vstdungpoEticftleTentsazid  studying  Napoleon^ 
dsposuOiL 

After  tiie  naiittge  of  Napoleon  vtth  the  Archduchess  Marie 
Lonise^  Menennch  was  treated  iridt  still  more  confidence  hy  tho 
Emperor  and  admittffd  to  the  doscst  intimacy.  Napoleon  urged 
him  to  visit  dbe  Empress  more  often  and  with  less  ceremony,  and  left 
them  alone,  dot  they  m^t  couTeise  more  freely.  The  Empress 
was  not  always  so  jndidoQs  in  her  conduct  as  was  desirable^  and 
N^toleon  asked  Mettemich  to  advise  her  with  regard  to  her  attitude 
towards  strainers.  "The  Empress  is  young,"  he  remarked;  "she 
mig^ think  I  was  going  to  be  a  severe  husband ;  you  are  herfather% 
nunister  and  the  friend  of  her  childhood ;  what  you  say  vrill  have 
more  efiect  upon  her  than  anything  I  could  say." 

When  war  finally  broke  out  with  Austria  Napoleon's  wrath 
eiqiloded  over  the  head  of  the  ambassador  who  had,  as  he  felt,  befooled 
him  and  lulled  his  suspicions  irith  hk  words.  The  French  reprcr 
sentative  at  Vienna  had  faithfully  reported  to  his  master  that  Austria 
was  making  unusual  preparations  to  increase  her  military  strength, 
but  Mettemich*s  soothing  phrases  calmed  Napoleon's  rising  wrath 
and  gave  Austria  time  to  complete  her  arrangements.  Events  suc- 
ceeded each  other  so  rapidly  that  the  Austrian  despatch  warning 
Mettemich  to  fly  from  Paris  had  only  just  arrived  when  Napoleon,  in 
hot  indignation,  gave  orders  to  Fouch^,  Minister  of  Police,  to  seize 
the  ambassador  and  march  him  to  the  frontier  under  strict  guard. 
Fouch^  however,  was  not  disposed  to  carry  out  his  instructions  au 
pUd  de  lakttre.  He  called  at  the  Austrian  Embassy  and  courteously 
asked  Mettemich  when  it  would  suit  him  to  leave  Paris.  He  even 
put  off  the  journey  for  a  couple  of  days  after  the  date  was  fixed,  in 
order  to  give  Mettemich  time  to  recover  from  a  slight  indisposition. 

It  was  to  Mettemich  that  the  Allied  Sovereigns  turned  in  1813 
when  Napoleon,  who  wanted  time  to  reorganise  his  forces,  was  doing 
all  in  his  power  to  protract  negotiations.  M.  de  Bubna,  the  Austrian 
ambassador,  had  been  spending  fruitless  days  in  trying  to  gain  an 
interview  with  Napoleon  at  Friedrichstadt,  near  Dresden,  where  the 
Emperor  had  stationed  himself.  Time  passed  on,  and  still  the 
business  was  no  nearer  being  settled.  The  Sovereigns  grew  more 
and  more  uneasy  and  consulted  Mettemich  as  to  what  was  to  be  done- 
This  brought  matters  to  a  head.  No  sooner  did  Napoleon  hear  that 
Mettemich  was  in  the  confidence  of  the  Allies  than  he  made  up  his 
mind  that  further  delay  was  useless.  He  sent  a  message  requesting 
that  Mettemich  would  come  and  see  him.  The  utmost  excitement 
prevailed.    Mettemich  went  in  the  character  of  mediator  for  half 


l66 


The  Gentleman  s  Magazine, 


Europe      Ministers,    generals,    ambassadors    thronged   the    onto- 
chambcrs  of  the  palace  in  fc%'erish  anxiety. 

The  interview  began  at  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  Napoleon, 
who  was  standing  with  his  hat  under  his  arm,  began  in  an  injured 
tone :  "  Here  you  are  then,  M.  de  Metternich,  at  last,  Vou  have 
come  very  late,  for  twenty-four  days  have  elapsed  since  the  armistice 
was  signed  and  nothing  has  yet  been  done.  All  this  lias  arisen  from 
the  delays  of  Austria.  I  have  long  been  sensible  that  I  could  not 
rely  on  my  relations  with  that  Power.  No  extent  of  obligation 
or  kind  deeds  has  been  able  to  overcome  your  inveterate  hostility 
towards  me." 

Warming  to  his  subject  Napoleon  proceeded  to  set  forth  how 
benevolent  and  pacific  had  been  his  conduct  throughout,  and 
•how  ungrateful  Austria  had  shown  herself  towards  him.  Metternich 
replied  that  he  Iiad  come  to  ask  for  peace,  and  explained  the 
proposed  terms.  Thereupon  Napoleon  broke  out  into  fury  and 
insult. 

"  I  know,"  he  said,  "  what  you  desire  in  seact.  You  Auslrians 
desire  to  get  Italy  entirely  to  yourselves  ;  your  friends  the  Russians 
desire  Poland ;  the  Prussians  are  set  on  Saxony,  the  English  on 
Belgium  and  Holland.  And  if  I  yield  to-day  you  will  to-morrow 
•  demand  of  me  those  the  objects  of  your  most  ardent  desires. 
But  before  you  get  them  prepare  to  raise  millions  of  men,  to  shed 
the  blood  of  many  generations,  and  to  come  to  treat  at  the  foot 
of  Montmartrc.  Oh,  Metternich  1  how  much  has  England  given  you 
to  propose  such  terms  to  me  ?" ' 

After  this  Napoleon  continued  in  a  blustering  strain,  saying  that 
lie  would  rather  die  than  tarnish  bis  glory.  "I  am  a  soldier. 
I  have  need  of  honour  and  glory.  I  cannot  reappear  lessened 
in  the  midst  of  my  people.    I  must  remain  great,  glorious,  admired." 

Metternich  asked,  if  that  were  the  case,  when  the  war  was  to 
come  to  an  end,  and  added,  "  I  have  just  traversed  your  army ; 
your  regiments  are  composed  of  children ;  you  have  anticipated  the 
regular  levies  and  called  to  arms  a  generatiun  not  yet  formed; 
if  that  generation  is  destroyed  by  the  war  in  which  you  arc  engaged 
where  will  you  find  a  new  one  to  supply  its  place?  WiU  you 
descend  to  a  still  younger  brood  of  children  ?" 

At  this  point  Napoleon  lost  the  last  remnants  of  his  self-control; 
he  grew  pale  with  rage,  and  letting  fall  the  bat  which  he  had  been 
carrying  he  walked  up  to  Metternich,  exclaiming,  "  You  are  not 
a  soldier,  sir ;  you  have  not  even  the  soul  of  a  soldier :  you  ha^-e 

'  Aliion's  Livts^L^rd  Csaikn^  and  Lord  Stttvartt  vol.  i.  p.  6ju 


Napdkon  and  Prince  Mettemich,  t^*^ 

not  lived  in  camps  or  learned  to  despise  your  own  life  or  those 
of  others  when  their  sacrifice  is  necessary.  What  are  two  hundred 
thousand  men  to  me?  I  can  afford  to  spend  a  hundred  thousand 
men  every  year." 

"Let  us  open  the  windows," replied  Mettemich,  "that  Europe 
in  a  body  may  hear  you,  and  if  it  does  so  the  cause  I  am  pleading 
will  not  suffer." 

Kicking  his  hat  into  a  comer  Napoleon  paced  about  the  room, 
haranguing  in  an  impassioned  strain  on  his  indifference  to  the 
slaughter  of  any  number  of  soldiers  belonging  to  other  nations,  and 
descanting  forcibly  on  the  unpardonable  ingratitude  of  Austria  after 
he  had  done  her  the  honour  of  marrying  an  Austrian  archduchess. 

All  through  the  June  afternoon  this  duel  of  words  was  carried  on. 
Napoleon  trying  to  g£un  his  point  by  invective,  Mettemich  sticking 
doggedly  to  Uie  original  terms  of  the  negotiation.  The  sun  went 
down,  it  giew  too  dark  for  the  opponents  to  distinguish  each  other's 
face^  and  still  the  anxious  watchers  outside  the  locked  doors  waited 
in  w(»i(tering  suspense  for  the  issue. 

At  last,  finding  he  could  make  no  headway,  Napoleon  exclaimed, 
**Vous  persisted  vous  voulez  toujours  me  dieter  la  loij  eh  bien,  soit 
la  guerre  I  mab  au  revoir  k  Vienne," 

"  You  are  lost.  Sire,"  was  Metteraich's  parting  word.  "  I  had 
the  presentiment  of  it  when  I  came;  now,  in  going,  I  have  the 
certainty." 

When  Mettemich  came  out  Berthier  rushed  up  to  him  and 
eagerly  inquired  if  he  were  satisfied  with  the  Emperor.  "  Perfectly 
so^  replied  Mettemich ;  "  he  has  taken  a  load  off  my  conscience,  for 
I  swear  to  you  your  master  has  lost  his  senses." 

Napoleon  in  describing  the  interview  the  same  evening,  said 
to  some  one,  "  I  have  had  a  long  conversation  with  Mettemich. 
He  held  out  bravely ;  thirteen  times  did  I  throw  him  the  gauntlet, 
and  thirteen  times  did  he  pick  it  up.  But  the  glove  will  remain 
in  my  bands  at  last." 

GEORGIANA  HILL. 


i6k 


The  Genihmatis  Magazine 


TERMINATING    THE    TREATISE. 


A   GHETTO  SKETCH. 

THE  Beth-Hatnidrash  of  the  synagogue  of  the  "Seekers  of 
Truth "  is  thronged  to-night  with  an  immense  assembly. 
The  large  dark-ceiled,  dingy-walled  room,  wliich  wears  a  gloomy 
aspect  by  day,  is  now  lit  up  with  a  blaze  of  splendour :  the  central 
chandelier— hanging  from  a  blackened  beam  above  the  Aimemmor 
or  precentor's  platform — glittering  with  a  blinding  effulgence  that 
is  reflected  from  its  many  clusters  of  prismatic  drops  ;  gas-jets 
blazing  with  their  flaming  tongues ;  candles  shining  with  their  serene 
slender  rays.  A  babel  of  a  hundred  voices  roars  tumultuously  in 
the  "  house  of  study  " ;  eager  excited  talk  flows  freely  on  every  8ide» 
accompanied  by  ceaseless  gesture.  Knots  of  men  are  gathered  here 
and  there:  near  the  "holy  ark"  containing  the  scrolls  of  the  Torah 
— a  cabinet  behung  with  a  blue  plush  curtain,  and  surmounted  by 
twin  tablets  inscribed  with  the  decalogue;  beside  the  huge  bookcase 
with  glass  sliding  doors,  stocked  with  ponderous  leather-bound 
volumes  ;  and  about  the  many  massive  pillars  supporting  the  ceiling, 
to  one  of  which  is  attached  a  crescent -shaped  tin  box  with  a  slit  in 
the  top,  which  serves  as  a  depository  to  givers  of  charity  in  secret. 
A  loquacious  little  fellow,  with  a  silk  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head,  is 
explaining  to  several  open-mouthed  listeners  an  elaborate  table  m 
the  tiniest  c^  type,  displayed  on  one  of  the  walls,  and  that  shows 
the  calendar  for  as  many  years  in  tlie  future  as  any  frequenter  of  the 
sanctuary  is  likely  to  require  ;  a  hatchet- faced,  grizzled  wight  is 
harangubg  a  small  company  on  the  gradual  spread  of  Sabbath- 
desecration  ;  a  solicitous  father  is  arranging  terms  with  a  Mclammed 
for  tlic  Hebrew  instruction  of  his  backward  son  ;  numerous  groups 
arc  hotly  debating  matters  of  policy  concerning  the  synagogue  ;  two 
or  three  "  Seekers  of  Truth  *'  are  discussing  the  discourse  delivered 
by  the  Maggid  (preacher)  on  the  prenous  day ;  and  many  a 
workman  is  raiUng  at  the  tyranny  of  employers  In  tliG  sympathetic 
hearing  of  his  discontented  mates. 

A  big  placard,  printed  in  bold  and  weak  characters  b  aU«fiuUe 


Tcmiinating  the  Treatise, 


169 


Jincs,  posted  on  a  disused  door,  attracts  the  attention  of  every 
ival,  who,  though  aware  of  the  nature  of  the  night's  event,  reads, 
rhaps  for  the  tenth  time,  the  following  announcement,  which  has 
stared  at  bim  from  many  a  shop  window  and  hoarding  in  the  last  few 
days :  "  On  the  first  day  of  the  week,  section  And  he  Hved^  at 
8  o'clock  in  the  evening,  our  teacher  the  Rav  .  .  .,  the  son  of  our 
teacher  the  Rav  .  .  .,  will  terminate  the  treatise  New  Vear,  and 
whosoever  cometh,  h.-ippy  will  he  be  and  blessed  will  bis  name  be 
caUed." 

Seated  on  the  benches  about  the  middle  of  a  long  tabic,  between 
the  pbtform  and  the  bookcase,  are  a  group  of  elderly  men  swaying 
intermittently  over  faded  folios,  and  deeply  engrossed  in  study  and 
discussion,  despite  the  general  commotion  around  them.  The  table 
is  covered  with  a  print  cloth  stained  with  candle-grease,  which  Is 
tied  to  the  legs  in  vain  pro\'ision  against  physical  demonstrations  of 
mental  exdtement.  The  diligent  circle  consists  of  those  who 
r^ularly  attend  the  Talmudical  expositions,  synecdochically  called 
the  £/af/  or  leaf,  which  are  delivered  by  the  Rav  (minister)  on  every 
night  but  the  Sabbath.  They  are  labouring  over  a  treatise  which 
begun  some  two  or  three  months  ago,  and  of  which,  in 
cordance  with  traditional  custom,  the  subtleties  and  perplexities  of 
the  last  page  or  so  have  been  left  to  be  unravelled  to-night,  with  all 
the  honour  of  an  especially  large  audience  and  the  rumoured 
reward  of  a  subsequent  repast.  Some  of  them  have  the  reputation 
of  scholars  versed— nay,  thoroughly  steeped — in  the  entire  rabbinical 
literature ;  and  report  says  that  one,  with  a  grey  forked  beard  and 
wizen  cheeks,  sitting  in  a  huddled  posture,  possesses  the  letters 
patent  of  a  Rav,  whereof  a  cruel  fate  has  presented  his  enjoying  the 
fruits.  The  others,  with  the  exception  of  the  Melammed,  who  is 
constantly  wiping  his  spectacles  with  a  snufTy,  red-patterned  hand- 
"kerchief,  and  the  bookseller— fabled  to  incorporate  in  his  person  the 
being  of  an  author  too— follow  quite  humble  callings,  comprising  as 
they  do  a  retail  grocer,  a  glazier,  a  pedlar,  and  an  itinerant  egg-dealer. 
Absorbed  the  whole  day  long  in  seeking  little  more  than  the  bread 
of  life,  they  now  are  lost  to  all  worldly  distraction,  wandering  in  a 
maze  of  dialectics,  and  forming  a  striking  picture  of  animated  study 
amid  the  surrounding  stir  and  babble — with  lips  trolling,  eyes  flashing, 
brows  wrinkling,  shoulders  heavinp,  bodies  swaying,  and  thumbs 
resolutely  scooping  the  air  as  though  to  clinch  the  momentous  argu- 
ment. Blithely  they  follow  the  bewildering  passage  of  the  dicta  of 
opposing  schools;  keenly  past  barriers  of  objection  and  lurking 
falUclcs,  they  scent  the  trail  of  the  guiding  truth,  and  vigorously  they 
vol-  cc.xci.    NO.  acvtS,  N 


17© 


The  Genlietnans  Magazine, 


clutch  each  other's  gesticulating  hand  in  vehement  dispute,  while 
pouring  forth  a  torrent  of  references,  and  whirling  their  own  free  hand 
in  rhythm  with  the  sequence  of  contrasted  clauses. 

But  suddenly  the  hubbub  ceases;  the  hatchet-faced  haranguer 
restrains  his  exhortations,  the  uproarious  debaters  check  their  fiery 
eloquence,  and  a  lanVy  ill-clad  youth  who  has  been  poring  over  a. 
volume  of  the  "Midrash  "  by  the  light  of  a  candle  on  a  broad  window- 
ledge,  turns  round  wondering  at  the  abrupt  lull.  "The  Rav  is 
here  ! "  is  whispered  throughout  the  room.  The  throng  quickly, 
reverently  parts,  and  a  slim  black-coated  figure  of  medium  height 
hastens  past  with  lowered  visage  to  the  seat  next  to  the  ark,  where 
he  stops  and  faces  the  walL  iUl  gossip  is  stayed  ;  the  people 
assume  an  attitude  of  prayer ;  and  a  fatherless  worshipper,  still  \x\ 
his  period  of  eleven  months'  mourning  has  ascended  the  Aimtmntor 
to  do  the  precentor's  office. 

The  service  concluded,  the  assembly  press  forward  to  the 
Talmudical  tabic.  But  the  benches  arc  of  limited  capacity,  and 
after  they  have  been  filled  to  their  utmost  there  still  remains  a 
modest  multitude  who  form  a  triple  straggling  fringe  on  either  side. 
Amongst  these  is  the  Parnass^  the  directing  genius  of  Uie  shrine  for 
the  current  year,  who,  with  an  unconvincing  look  of  wisdom,  ia 
leaning  his  elbows  on  the  back  of  a  bench  ;  but  a  past  president 
and  former  rival  of  the  present  warden,  who  has  long  seceded  from 
the  "  Seekers  of  Truth  "  because  of  the  waning  of  his  influence,  lut 
has  been  invited  to  the  celebration  because  of  the  air  of  importance 
lent  by  his  dignity  as  communal  chairman,  is  given  a  scat  of  honour 
and  comfort.  The  shuflling  of  feet  and  buzz  of  voices  yet  continue, 
and  the  Shamtnes  (beadle)  feeling  his  authority  defied,  takes  up  a 
prayer-book,  strikes  it  thrice  with  his  heavy  palm,  and  belches  forth 
an  emphatic  imperious  "  Sha-a-a  I " 

Silence  follows.  All  eyes  turn  to  the  impressive  figure  at  the 
centre  of  the  table.  A  dark  grave  face,  vivid  eyes,  snowy  beard, 
thin  firm  lips,  silver-streaked  earlocks,  and  a  lofly  forehead  surmounted 
by  a  skull-cap  ;  the  whole  pervaded  with  a  glow  of  enthusiasm,  an 
ineffable  halo  of  piety  and  learning  : — such  is  the  appearance  of  the 
Rar.  At  his  elbow  is  a  pile  of  six  or  eight  stout  volumes  for 
purposes  of  reference  ;  and  a  pair  of  thick  wax  candles,  in  tall  silver 
candlesticks,  shed  their  light  around  him.  His  forefinger  passes 
qnickly  down  the  page  of  the  bulky  tome  as  he  reviews  with  the 
glance  of  a  veteran  the  preceding  arguments,  and  a  feint  strain  of 
the  traditional  sing-song  slowly  issues  from  between  bis  lips. 
Almost  imperceptibly,  amid  breathless  stillness,  [be  begins  in  knr 


Temttnating  the  Treatise^ 


dear  tones  to  unfold  the  theme  of  his  exposition  ;  and  in  another 
moment  he  has  embarked  on  the  advertised  passage. 

"  The  sea  of  the  Talmud,"  as  the  Rabbis  call  the  thesaurus  of 
andent  Jewish  lore,  is  an  expanse  whose  every  inch  is  known  to  him, 
whose  depths  are  revealed  to  him  in  their  very  outline,  whose  currcnta 
Bow  harmoniously  with  the  trend  of  his  thoughts.  Vast,  indeed, 
it  is,  almost  immeasurably  vast,  but  he  has  traversed  its  mighty 
bosom  more  than  once,  with  a  perseverance  that  grew  with  time  and 
a  joy  augmented  by  the  belief  that  only  thus  could  one  reach  celestial 
territory.  His  mind  glides  upon  it  with  the  ease  begotten  of  fifty 
years'  practice,  and  his  features  wear  a  look  of  anticipated  success. 
At  first  with  steady  course,  to  suit  the  feeble  wits  in  the  company, 
he  steers  the  way  on  the  great  tract — which  contains  in  its  midst 
elements  of  all  earthly  science,  scraps  of  saga  and  fable,  gems  of 
truth,  lumps  of  wisdom,  myth,  allegory,  all  resting  on  layers  of 
religious  legislation — skilfully  avoiding  dilemmas  and  passing  safely 
over  stretches  of  logomachy,  cleaving  asunder  conflicting  theories 
and  principles,  and  stopping  ever  and  anon  to  study  some  interesting 
spot  more  minutely  in  strips  of  bordering  commentary,  and  then 
continuing  cheerfully  and  more  briskty  on  the  path  strewn  for  him 
with  the  light  of  Heaven  ;  what  time  he  marks  his  progress  by  a 
Quaint  fantastic  air,  rising  now  to  treble  and  sinking  soon  to  a  soft 
Pnimbling  bass,  now  quavering,  now  flowing,  now  harsh,  now  sweet, 
vibrating  with  tender  emotive  chords  and  loud  with  grating  ululations 
wherein  resounds  a  people's  voice  with  the  wailing  echo  of  tlie 
centuries.  And  his  hand,  restless  as  with  some  feverish  transport, 
iinda  with  pointed  finger  hither  and  thither,  following  the  varied 
urns  and  twists  of  the  fluctuating  argument  as  it  ploughs  the 
(Talmudical  deep.     But   soon  there  comes  a  pause :  the  need  of 

chiog  outlook  arises,  of  penetrating  a  cloud  of  hazy  hypotheses, 
^and  the  passage  is   stayed  while  the  master  of  the  Gemara,  with 
knitted  brow,  consults  the  ponderous  books  at  his  side. 

Meanwhile    the    rumoured    possessor  of  a  rabbinical   diploma 
discusses  in  an  undertone  with  the  erudite  grocer;  the  itinerant  egg- 
dealer,   with  much    taking  of   snuff  and    stroking  of   his   beard, 
Lexchangcs  \'icws  with  the  philosophical  glaiier  ;  and  the  Mclammedi 
[placing  his  fore&nger  to  the  side  of  his  nose,  gives  ear  to  the 
[strictures  of  the  learned  pedlar.    Meanwhile  the  gaunt  goatcc-beardcd 
Ibeadlc^  perched  on  the  narrow  ledge  of  the  bookcase,  with  his  hand 
rgrasping  a  shelf,  and  bis  legs  dangling,  succumbs  to  the  fatigue  of 
the  day,  the  heat  of  the  room,  and  the  dryness  of  the  discourse; 
bis  eyes  doee,  hb  head  droops,  and  he  is  on  the  point  of  falling  to 

N  a 


172 


The  Gentletnans  Magazine, 


the  floor  when  he  awates  with  a  start  and  a  look  of  wrath.  Mean- 
while the  communal  chairman,  helpless  before  the  like  soporific 
influences,  is  bowed  in  peaceful  slumber,  his  gold-rimmed  pincc-nn 
clinging  lovingly  to  his  nose  ;  and  the  Chazan  (precentor),  a  dense 
portly  personage,  sitting  apart  in  solitary  state  beside  the  ark,  listens 
to  the  general  hum  and  hums  himself  an  original  refrain  for  the 
"  additional "  service  of  an  approaching  festival 

At  length  the  Rav  has  concluded  his  research ;  a  luminous 
commentary  has  dispelled  the  overhanging  mist,  and  with  a  pleased 
countenance,  from  which  the  wrinkles  seera  to  have  vanished,  he 
continues  the  voyage  in  the  ancient  volume.  But  floods  of  reason- 
ing press  heavily  about  him  ;  the  argument  toils  on  wearily;  and 
the  burden  must  be  lightened  by  the  jetsam  of  anecdote  and  recurrent 
wit.  Still  there  are  spells  of  uninterrupted  /¥^/ (dialectics)  when 
the  whole  assembly  seem  borne  along  as  by  some  mighty  impulse, 
the  movement  of  their  minds  evincing  itself  in  their  faces,  which 
Resent  a  panorama  of  wrought-up  interest,  anxiety,  cogitation^ 
delight,  and  concentrated  study.  They  watch  the  course  of  the 
Rav's  advance  with  eager  eyes,  with  close-pressed  lips,  ever  on  the 
alert  for  a  deviation  from  the  rightful  path,  and  quick  to  exclaim 
their  queries  or  self- convinced  corrections.  Often,  indeed,  there 
rises  a  vigorous  dispute  between  master  and  men  as  to  the  true 
lenour  of  the  labouring  ratiocination,  and  on  either  side  is  heard  a 
strong  expression  of  subtle  views — voluble  quotation  of  maxims  and 
authorities — weakening  down  at  last  in  favour  of  the  grey  preceptor. 
Then  there  spreads  across  the  faces  of  the  more  light-hearted  a 
smile  of  triumph  at  the  confusion  of  those  that  would  be  clever,  and 
though  the  chsmces  are  great  that  to  ihcm  the  meaning  of  the  whole 
discussion  is  a  dark  impenetrable  mystery,  yet  many  are  the  mutual 
smirks  and  the  shakings  of  forefingers  that  serve  as  signals  of  a 
complete  agreement  with  the  final  decision. 

And  so  the  argument  struggles  on^  with  r^fular  visits  to  the 
neighbouring  commentary*,  returning  ever  and  again  to  the  midst  of 
the  text ;  and  as  the  Rav  glances  round  he  meets  with  many  an 
assenting  nod  and  sage  demeanour,  affected  by  wise  and  unwise 
alike,  and  prompted  by  a  general  desire  to  appear  sympathetic  Yet 
here  and  there  are  drowsy  e>es,  heavy  drooping  heads  \  victims  as  it 
were  to  Talmudic  sea-sickness,  whose  habits  have  estranged  them 
&om  this  exhausting  excursion.  A  swart  puny  creature,  with  a  cloth 
cap  on  his  dishe\"eHed  shock,  who  has  been  lately  bereft  of  his  wife, 
has  lulled  himself  to  sleep,  and  on  his  knee  sits  a  little  weakling  boy 
with  pitiful  eyes  and  pole  thin  cheeks.    An  etat-famcd  Melamtned, 


Terfninating  ike  Treatise, 


173 


purblind  and  doddering,  looks  on  with  a  vacant  stare ;  and  leaning 
against  the  charity-box  pillar  stands  a  man  of  demented  wit,  with  a 
pbronied  bearded  face,  and  leering  glittering  eyes, 

Bui  now  a  sense  of  relief  seems  to  hover  about  the  company  : 
a  dim  perception  that  the  end  of  the  passage  is  drawing  nigh ;  and 
their  hearts  beat  faster,  and  their  attention  becomes  more  keen  as 
they  await  the  issue  of  the  Ray's  disputr.tive  emprise.  And  be,  with 
a  voice  still  bold  and  steady,  and  little  subdued  by  an  hour's  incessant 
speech,  pursues  his  path  with  undiminishing  zest,  his  dark,  grave 
features  Ut  up  with  majestic  glow — fed  by  internal  ardour— and  his 
lips  throwing  forth  the  ever-succeeding  measures  of  dialectical  lore 
with  rapid,  delightful  accents.  Diligently  the  seven  faithful  students 
follow  the  winding  track — the  dizning  disquisition— insensible  to 
the  tossing  and  rocking  on  the  theological  tide,  and  lifting  up  their 
eyes  ever  and  again  from  their  tomes  gaze  with  a  look  of  reverence 
on  the  thoughtful  aged  countenance.  Slowly  the  bark  glides  on, 
Land  now  it  sails  swiftly,  on  and  on,  with  a  pleasant  rhythmic  motion, 
^neaiing  safely  its  destination  \  and  as  the  tones  of  the  Rav  are  stilled 
and  bis  Talmudic  voyage  ended,  a  Hearty  joyous  shout  breaks  forth 
from  every  throat :  "  Yosher  Kowack  (Strength  increase) ! "  and  a 
mirthful  uproar  reigns  throughout  the  room. 

Again  and  again  is  the  hand  of  the  Rav  shaken  with  unutterable 
Mdmiration.  Wishes  galore  hail  down  upon  him  that  he  may  live  to 
Ftcrminate  many  a  treatise  in  the  days  to  come.  With  a  smile  of 
content  he  mops  his  brow  and  nods  acknowledgments  on  every  side. 
And  the  fatherless  worshipper,  who  read  the  evening  service 
hurriedly  recites  the  customary  prayer  of  thanksgiving,  in  which 
occurs  a  specially  long  glorification  of  God,  and  favour  is  besought 
"for  all  who  study  ilie  Law  in  whatsoever  place."  After  which 
spiritual  invocation  a  general  exodus  ensues  into  an  adjoining 
chamber  to  complete  the  celebration  with  material  festivity. 


ENOCH  SCR  IDS. 


174 


The  GenlUmatis  Magazine. 


THE    FIGHT    AT    BOJV,    NEAR 
LONDON,    IN    1648. 


"  Essex  U  comming  up  w'  a  pcticiuQ  wbidi  displcftscth  the  bosses,  and  thcrdbre 
wonld  hinder  It  either  by  foire  ineanes,  sending  downc  Knights  of  that  Sbtrc  to 
receive  it  or  to  pcrswadc  ihcra  to  send  it  up  by  n  few,  or  by  foule,  fo  which 
purpose  a  Regiment  of  I  lorse  U  to  be  sent  to  Riimfotd,  and  onotho'  to  Bow  oader 
the  command  of  Cromwell.'' 

*■  Essex  I'etitioa  is  now  expected  and  Cromwell  goa  to  6ow»  in  cue  they 

come  with  number  to  opix^se  them." 

(Extracts  from  Letter  of  lateU^eticc,  May  i,  1638.    Claicndcm  MS.] 


AT  the  time  of  the  historic  contest  for  supremacy  between  the 
Cavaliers  and  Roundheads,  Bow  was  a  rural  town  situated  sonic 
two  and  a  half  miles  east  of  the  City  of  London.     It  was  a  settle- 
ment which  had  grown  up  on  both  sides  of  the  bridge  erected  in  the 
twelfth  century  over  the  river  Lea.    The  eastern  portion  of  the  bridge 
is  in  the  county  of  Essex,  and  the  western  portion  in  Middlesex. 
Bow  was  then,  as  now.  one  of  the  Tower  Hamlets,  but  tt  is  now 
surrounded  for  mites  on  every  side  with  nineteenth -century  buildings, 
and  but  for  the  church  and  the  river,  and  tlie  position  of  the  bridge 
and  the  highway,  little  remains  to  mark  the  town  which  Cromwell 
knew.    The  year  1648  was  a  period  of  great  unrest  and  disturbance 
in  London.     Frequent  collisions  occuncd  between  the  parliamentary 
army  and  the  London  populace.     The  majority  of  the  citizens  and 
of  the  inhabitants  of  the  neighbouring  counties  of  Essex,  Kent  and 
Suney  were  in  favour,  at  this  lime,  of  making  a  compromise  with 
King  Charles,  and  of  restoring  him  to  the  throne  with  somewhat 
diminished  power  and  authority.     Ilie  King  was  now  a  prisoner  in 
Carisbrookc  Castle  in  the  custody  of  Colonel  Hammond,  and  in  ll»c 
early  part  of  the  year  even  Cromwell  and  his  party  still  thought  it 
might  be  possible  to  come  to  terms  with  him,  or  to  induce  him  to 
abdicate  in  bvour  of  one  of  his  sons,  who  was,  however^  to  be 


The  Fight  at  Botv^  near  London^  in  1648.    ijs 


dq»ived  of  certain  prerogatives  which  Charles  considered  belonged 
to  the  Crown. 

Dissatisfaction  with  the  existing  condition  of  aHaiis  was  becoming 
general  throughout  the  countr)-,  and  high-handed  proceedings  by 
Parliament,  and  more  particularly  by  the  parliaraenlary  army,  had 
ded  the  Cavaliers  in  their  task  of  stirring  up  opposition  to  Cromwell 
nd  his  friends.  The  occupation  of  London  by  the  parliamentary 
army  had  aroused  the  keen  resentment  of  the  citizens,  and  Cromwell 
and  Fairfax  saw  with  some  alarm  thai  they  might  be  called  upon  to 
keep  down  the  City  by  force  of  arms  at  the  same  time  lliat  they  were 
doing  battle  with  the  Welsh  and  the  Scotch,  This  they  knew  the 
army  was  not  strong  enough  to  accompUsh,  and  they  therefore 
resolved  to  appease  ihe  City  fathers.  Accordingly,  Fairfax  (the 
Lord-General  of  the  parliamentary  forces)  announced  to  the  House 
of  Commons  (May  1)  his  intention  of  sending  Cromwell  into  Wales, 
and  withdrawing  the  regiments  from  Whitehall  and  the  Mews,  and 
aving  the  protection  of  Parliament  to  the  London  forces  under 
fajor-General  Skippon,  a  Presbyterian  favoured  by  tlie  Londoners, 
He  also  withdrew  his  soldiers  from  the  Tower,  and  allowed  the  City 
to  garrison  that  fortress  with  its  own  militia  \  and  permitted  the 
replacement  of  the  chains  which  had  been  drawn  across  the  main 
thoroughfares  to  prevent  cavalry  charges,  and  which  had  been  taken 
down  by  the  army. 

AlUiough  the  army  was  cordially  bated  by  the  people  of  London, 
the  citizens  were  too  much  afraid  of  a  fresh  outbreak  of  war  to  take 
^active  measures  against  it,  and  when,  at  the  end  of  May,  the  Kentish 
ilists  mobilised  and  met  at  Blackheath,  and  asked  for  support 
from  the  City,  these  concessions  probably  influenced  the  townsfolk 
in  their  decision  to  refuse  to  render  any  assistance. 

However,  in  the  early  part  of  the  year  the  discontent  in  the  Gty 

was  so  widespread  that  the  Parliament  dreaded  the  appearance  of 

.any  great  gathering  of  malcontents,  even  though  they  came  only  to 

ppresent  a  petition;  hence  the  order  to  Cromwell  to  prevent  the 

ssage  of  any  large  number  of  the  Essex  petitioners  through  London, 

Peithcr  by  fair  means  or  foul. 

The  petitioners  were  to  be  persuaded  to  allow  the  petition  to  be 

ented  by  a  few  representatives  who  might  pass  to  H'estminster  , 

rithout  attracting  undue  attention  ;  and  should  the  petitioners  prove 

untractable  Cromwell  was  to  disperse  them  with  his  cavalry.     But 

Lihc  men  of  Essex  seem  on  this  occasion  10  have  been  a  match  for 

rihe  forceful  Puritan,  as  the  distasteful  petition  which  pra>'cd  that 

the  Ring  might  be  satisfied  was  actually  brought  to  Westminster  on 


.76 


The  GcntkmatCs  Magazine, 


May  4  by  a  procession  of  some  2,000  men,  and  was  said  to  repre- 
sent the  wishes  of  30,000  of  the  Essex  inhabitants.  Probably 
Parliament  at  the  last  moment  concluded  that  it  would  not  be  wise 
to  use  force  of  arms  merely  to  prevent  the  presentation  of  a  petition; 
but  twelve  days  later  the  men  of  Surrey  presented  a  similar  petition, 
and  John  Evelyn  in  his  diary  notes  that  "some  of  them  were  slajme 
and  murder'd  by  Cromwell's  guards  in  the  New  Palace  Yard." 

The  people  of  Kent  also  determined  to  present  a  like  petition, 
and  to  support  it  if  necessary  by  force  of  arms.  A  general  rising  of 
this  county  took  pbce  on  May  21,  and  Rochester,  Siltbgboumc, 
Favcrsham,  and  Sandwich  were  occupied  in  the  King's  name.  It 
was  agreed  that  on  May  30  the  supporters  of  the  petition  should 
meet,  fully  armed,  at  Blackheath.  The  petitioners  came  as  far  as 
Deptford,  but  then  retreated  because  news  arrived  of  the  approach  of 
the  parliamentor)'  forces.  A  detachment  of  the  petitioners  was 
defeated  at  Maidstone  on  June  1  by  Fairfax,  and  the  greater  part  of 
the  Kentish  men  then  dispersed.  The  Earl  of  Norwich  (Lord 
Goring),  the  leader  of  the  royalist  forces,  fled,  and  reached  Black- 
heath  on  the  evening  of  June  3  with  some  3,000  followers*, 
Fairfax,  who  had  still  to  occupy  other  towns  in  Kent,  detached  a 
body  of  horse  under  the  command  of  Colonel  Whalley  (first  cousin 
to  Cromwell)  from  his  main  army  to  deal  with  Norwich  and  his 
party.  Professor  Gardiner,  in  his  "  History  of  the  Great  Civil  War," 
says  that  "  when  Nor^vich  reached  Blackheath  he  found  no  sign  of 
welcome.  With  the  gatos  of  London  shut  against  him,  and  WhaUe/s 
troops  pressing  in  his  rear,  his  position  was  untenable*  A  gleam  of 
hope,  however,  reached  liim  from  Essex,  where,  as  he  was  informed, 
thousands  had  risen  for  the  King.  Crossing  the  river  alone  he  rode 
ofl"  to  Chelmsford  to  ascertain  the  truth,  leaving  his  deserted 
followers  distracted  by  panic.  The  greater  part  of  them  fled 
hurriedly  into  Surrey,  abandoning  their  horses  and  casting  away 
their  arms  to  escape  observation.  About  500  crossed  the 
Thames  in  boats,  their  horses  swimming  by  the  side,  and  the 
following  rooming  established  themselves  at  Stratford  and  Bow, 
where  they  were  at  last  rejoined  by  their  commander,  who  found  no 
signs  of  a  rising  in  Essex.  Taking  possession  of  Bow  Bridge, 
Norwich  cut  the  communication  between  Essex  and  tlie  City,  hoping 
in  the  first  place  tlmt  London  would  c\-en  yet  admit  him  within  tia 
walls,  and  in  the  second  place  that,  if  that  was  not  to  be,  he  might, 
by  his  interposition,  give  a  bre^ilhing  space  to  the  men  of  Essex  to 
rally  round  him.** 

A  pamphlet  entitled  "  Ne>C8  from  Bowc,"  printed  in  1648,  tclli 


The  Fight  ai  Bou.u  fuar  Linden,  in  i6^8.   177 


I 


I 


I 


us  thai  "  On  Sunday  night  hst,  being  the  rourth  of  this  instutt  June, 
there  was  a  small  skinntsh  between  soote  of  tbe  Lord  Gorings  forces 
which  were  joyncd  with  the  Essex  men  at  Bow,  ind  sotue  of  the 
Lord  Gcneralls  horse  which  were  come  back  to  mflg  end,  and  are 
commanded  by  Col:  Wbalcy,  there  was  aboot  thite  men  kiUed  on 
both  sides,  those  of  the  Essex  party  were  fixccd  to  retreat  again  to 
Bow  bridge  and  farther  action  ceased  for  Ibe  present  There  are 
more  horses  mounting  in  the  Oty  of  London  to  aastst  those  on  that 
side  of  the  river  of  bow  and  the  L.Gen.  (Fair£at)  is  ooaug^  bad^ 
and  will  be  on  the  other  side  this  ni^ht  or  to-morrow.* 

A  weekly  newspaper  called  7%e  Kin^iiUi  WttJtly  ImitiUgmcer, 
in  its  issue  for  the  week  ending  June  6,  1648,  informs  us  that  on 
Sunday,  June  4,  Lord  Goring  "  with  the  cfaoyaest  of  his  men  waa 
ferryed  over  into  Essex,  baring  beard  that  the  Essex  men  bad  began 
to  rise  into  a  body,  and  planted  two  Drakes  on  Bow  Bridge,  where  be 
(the  reporter)  beard  they  appeared  to  stand  in  a  posture  of  defence 
but  interrupted  none  tliat  passed  that  way.  About  one  of  the  dock 
in  the  afternoon  Coltood  Whaley  who  with  a  coosiderxble  party  of 
horse  was  sent  in  pursuit  of  the  Lord  Goring  did  advance  after  him 
into  Essex  over  the  river  (over  London  Bridge), and  had  his  Reodex 
Tous  on  Mileend  Green,  from  whettce  he  bad  sent  many  Prisoners 
vhich  he  had  l&ken,  to  Guild- Halt  The  Lord  Goring  being  come 
into  Essex,  the  militia  of  the  City  sent  up  two  Lrraks  to  Aldgate 
which  were  planted  for  the  present  safety  of  the  City." 

The  same  periodtcai  in  its  news  for  Monday,  Jane  5,  states  that 
"  Collonel  WTixley  the  last  night  had  like  to  have  been  ingaged  with 
tbem  (the  royalists)  not  far  from  Bovr,  having  with  him  a  con- 
siderable Body  of  Horse,  besides  three  troops  lent  from  Lieutenant 
GeneiaU  Cromwell,  and  a  troop  belonging  to  the  Gty,  under  the 
command  of  Capt  Cook.  But  finding  the  Foot  had  lined  the 
Hedges,  and  dressed  an  Ambush  for  him,  be  did  forbear,  and  was 
content  to  return  with  two  or  three  prisoners  taken,  and  as  many 
slain." 

From  a  narrative  of  the  Great  Victory  in  Kent,  and  of  the  fight 
al  Bow,  ordered  to  be  printed  by  the  House  of  Commons  in  164S, 
we  lean)  that  "  The  Lord  Goring  with  those  at  Stratford  and  Boe 
had  a  dispute  with  some  of  ours,  where  wc  killed  them  a  Major,  and 
three  men,  and  took  six  prisoners,  with  one  man  slain  on  our  part, 
and  upon  assurance  of  an  indemnity  the  £lssex  men  wilt  be  quiet" 

Many  of  the  royalist  papers  printed  at  this  period  were  rcty 
lewd  and  coarse,  and  few  more  so  than  Tfu  ParUamtnt  Kitt^  but 
the  issue  of  this  newspaper  for  June  S,  1648,  contains  the  following 


«r8 


Tke  Geniiemans  Magazine, 


interesting  reference  to  the  seiiuie  of  Bow  Bridge :  Lord  Coring 
"ferryed  over  his  Horse  and  Foot  at  Black-wall,  and  so  in  good 
Eqipage  marched  to  Stratford -langton,  and  possessed  themselves  of 
Bow-bridge,  and  surprized  two  Foot  Com  panics  of  the  (Tower) 
HamletLs,  all  but  those  that  flung  down  their  Armcs,  and  run  for  it, 
one  of  which  was  said  to  be  the  cowardly  Gale  alias  Disch.  From 
Bow  on  Sunday  in  the  afternoon,  a  Party  of  about  13  Horse 
scouted  out  as  far  as  Mile-end,  and  gallantly  charged  some  four 
Troops  of  Fairfax  his  Horse  who  like  valiant  Rebells,  b^an  to  run 
for  it." 

According  to  Professor  Gardiner,  Norwich,  leaving  his  troops 
behind  him  under  Sir  William  Compton,  hurried  to  Chelmsford  on 
the  7th,  and  after  a  conference  at  Brentwood  with  the  principal 
Essex  royalists  relumed  to  Stratford,  and  on  the  8th  took  his  troops 
to  Brentwood,  where  he  joined  his  forces  with  those  of  Sir  Charles 
Lucas ;  but  a  letter  from  Sir  Thomas  Honeywood  to  Col.  Cooke, 
dated  June  7,  states  that  "  the  rebels  that  were  at  Bow  have  been 
driven  thence  by  Col:  Whalley  who  is  now  at  Stratford  Langton 
with  orders  to  pursue  them." 

The  story  of  the  retreat  of  the  royalists  to  Colchester,  and  the 
long  siege  of  that  town  by  Fairfax,  is  too  well  known  to  need  repeti- 
tion here.  The  ro)-alists  did  not  surrender  until  the  aSih  day  of 
August,  and  during  all  those  long  weeks  of  si^e  Bow  Bridge  wis  a 
position  of  great  importance  from  a  military  point  of  view,  for  the 
bridge  is  on  the  direct  road  from  X^ndon  to  Colchester,  and  greatly 
facilitated  the  transport  of  food,  arms,  and  ammunition.  Its 
importance  is  sufficiently  indicated  in  the  following  Orders  and 
letters  from  the  Committee  of  both  Houses  of  Parliament  which  sat 
at  this  time  at  Derby  House  : 

June  S,  164S. — Warrant  to  the  Committee  of  the  Tower  Hamlets. 
"You  are  authorised  to  draw  forth  upon  this  occasion  120  trusty 
men,  with  two  pieces  of  ordnance,  to  secure  the  bridge  at  Bow  and 
passages  at  Ham,  in  order  to  prevent  the  enemy  from  seizing  on  them 
and  thereby  hindering  the  coming  of  provisions  into  the  City  and  so 
breed  a  discontent  there.  Also  by  guarding  tlie  said  bridge  and 
passes  many  disaflectcd  persons  may  be  kept  from  repairing  to  the 
rebels  and  their  correspondence  with  the  City  hindered," 

July  3,  1648.— Letter  to  the  Lord  General  (Fairfax).  "The 
enemy  have  an  intention  to  stop  the  passage  at  Bow  Bridge  so  as  to 
hinder  the  coming  of  ammunition  and  other  provisions  by  that  way 
to  you." 

July  5,  1648. — Letter  10  the  Militia  of  the  Tower  Hamlets. 


The  Fight  at  Bow^  near  London,  in  1648.  179 

"Tliere  are  now  a  guard  of  Essex  horse  at  Bow  Bridge,  but  as  there 
may  be  occasion  to  employ  these  elsewhere,  you  are  desired  to  pre- 
pare a  guard  of  100  men  to  sectu%  these  bridges." 

July  20,  1648. — Order  to  Major>General  Skippon  for  a  convoy 
from  London  to  Bow,  and  the  like  to  Colonel  MUdmay  to  take 
charge  of  the  said  ammunition  from  thence  till  he  meet  another  con- 
voy (from  the  army  before  Colchester). 

The  presence  of  troops  was  no  novelty  in  the  little  town  of  Bow, 
for  in  Z589  the  inhabitants  of  Bow,  Bromley,  and  Stepney  had  been 
oU^ed  to  receive  into  their  houses,  and  find  victuals  for,  several 
htmdred  of  the  troops  who  were  sent  into  Portugal  When  the  troops 
had  departed  the  inhabitants  petitioned  the  Government  that  they 
might  be  "  paid  the  several  sommes  of  money  due  unto  them  for 
the  victualing  of  soldiers  before  their  going  into  Fortugale,"  and 
the  Privy  Council  generously  ordered  that  jQio  should  be  distributed 
that  "  the  poore  men  maie  in  some  sort  be  relieved  and  our  selves 
no  more  trobled."  The  Government  of  the  present  day  would 
probably  be  glad  to  dispose  of  their  bills  for  the  victualling  of  soldiers 
in  a  similar  manner.  Nevertheless,  the  passage  of  Fairfax's  army  and 
all  the  attendant  paraphernalia  of  war  through  the  rural  hamlet 
was  a  stirring  episode  to  be  long  remembered  and  discussed  by  the 
inhabitants. 

The  capture  of  Colchester  by  Fairfax  and  Ireton  was  followed  by 
the  barbarous  execution,  after  surrender,  of  two  of  its  most  gallant 
defenders.  Sir  Charles  Lucas  and  Sir  George  Lisle.  Thus 
terminated  the  last  struggle  for  King  Charles,  and  a  few  months  later 
the  ill-&ted  monarch  was  beheaded. 

HAROLD  F.  UILLS. 


]8o 


The  Ceniieman^s  Magadne, 


THE  LOVE  STORY  OF  AN  OLD 
MARQUISE. 

IN  the  late  autumn  of  17 13,  a  young  girl,  Mademoiselle  de  Froulay, 
daughter  of  one  of  the  most  aristocratic  houses  of  France^  made 
her  first  journey  to  Paris.  She  travelled  in  a  post-chaise,  and  was 
alone,  save  for  one  woman-attendant  and  the  two  postillions  that  her 
father  had  sent  from  Paris  to  escort  her.  They  were  six  days  on  the 
road — those  villainous  roads  that  nothing  but  the  exigencies  of  a 
royal  progress  could  make  tolerable — and  when  at  the  journey's  end 
she  was  met  by  her  father  at  the  de  Froulay  Hotel  in  the  Rue  St. 
Dominique,  he  received  her  as  coolly  as  if  they  had  separated  only 
the  evening  before,  though,  curiously  enough,  he  had  never  seen  her 
[till  then  during  the  fourteen  or  fifteen  years  of  her  yo'mg  life. 

This  visit  to  Paris  was  a  tremendous  and  unexpected  epoch  in 
Mademoiselle  de  Froulay's  career.  Her  mother  had  died  at  her  birth 
while  her  father  was  away  commanding  his  troops  on  the  Germim 
L.frontier ;  and,  as  soon  as  she  was  able  to  dispense  with  a  nurse's 
.care,  she  was  taken  in  a  litter  to  the  Abbey  of  Montivilliers,  where 
her  serene  childhood  was  passed  among  the  quiet  Sisters,  under  the 
direct  and  kindly  supervision  of  her  aunt,  the  imposing  Abbess. 
She  was  a  specublivc,  dreamy  child,  and  would  spend  hours,  eerie 
twilight  hours,  in  the  sepulchral  chapel  where  the  abbesses  of  the 
convent  lay  buried  ;  feeling  no  fear  of  the  gloom,  no  terror  of  the 
tombs  and  efligics  of  the  departed  abbesses  \  she  looked  on  these 
latter  rather  as  her  spiritual  kin  among  whom  her  aunt  would  one  day 
be  laid ;  among  whom  she  might  eventually  lie  herself  as  her  aunt's 
successor.  For  there  seemed  nothing  but  the  cloister  before  her. 
All  the  hopes  of  the  house  were  centred  in  her  only  brother,  a  hand- 
some young  seigneur  who  had  been,  as  was  the  custom  of  his  class 
and  period,  so  much  away  from  his  family  that  she  never  saw  him 
till  she  was  eight  years  old  ;  her  father's  estate  was  not  large  enough 
to  dower  her  according  to  her  rank  ;  and  her  grandfiither,  the  only 
one  of  his  line  who  had  married  into  ^/ami/U  dtfinami^  was  con- 
sidered a  deplomblc  example  for  all  the  rest  of  his  blood  to  avoid. 
Then,  one  da/,  when  she  was  in  her  fifteenth  year,  news  oune  to 


I 


The  Love  Story  of  an  Old  Marquise.       1 8 1 

the  convent  which  brought  a  supreme  change  into  her  quiet  destiny. 
Her  brother  the  young  seigneur  was  dead,  and,  though  married,  had 
leftxu>  children.  She  was,  therefcH'c,  no  longer  the  possible  re/tguuse 
with  the  veil  before  her  ready  to  hide  the  world  from  her  young  and 
curious  eyes,  but  a  great  heiress,  fitted  by  rank  and  wealth  for  almost 
any  fortune  that  France  could  offer.  Her  accomplishments,  too, 
were  all  tliat  any  lady  was  expected  to  acquire,  but  her  aunt,  the 
Abbess,  wisely  decided  that  the  usages  of  the  grand  monde  in  wliich 
ber  future  would  probably  be  spent,  were  not  to  be  lightly  picked  up 
by  hearsay  or  intuition  ;  ibcy  could  only  be  learned  in  Paris  under 
the  careful  guidance  of  some  high-bom  dame  to  whom  the  practice 
of  such  knowledge  was  an  everyday  affair. 

Hence  Uie  journey  to  Paris— when  the  prescribed  period  of 
mourning  was  over — where  her  father,  after  ordering  a  satisfying 
quantity  of  confectionery  even  for  the  appetite  of  fifteen,  took  her  to 
the  Hotel  de  Breteuil,  where  she  was  to  pass  the  winter  with  her 
aunt,  the  Baronne  de  Bretcuil-Preuilly  (her  father's  sister),  learning 
meanwhile  what  had  suddenly  become  an  important  and  serious 
branch  of  her  education — the  manners  and  habits  of  aristocratic 
France  as  practised  at  Paris. 

Notwithstanding  the  tears  shed  at  parting  with  her  indulgent 
sunt  the  Abbess,  this  sudden  excursion  into  an  entirely  new  life  was 
fiill  of  charm  for  the  intelligent  young  girl  whom  the  Fates  had 
dowered  at  birth  with  the  magic  gift  of  observation.  The  Hotel  de 
Breteuil  was  a  handsome  building  ovcriooking  the  gardens  of  the 
Tuileries  and  divided  into  several  flats  of  eight  or  nine  rooms ;  each 
storey  occupied  by  different  branches  of  the  Breteuil  family. 

Thus,  the  ground  floor  was  the  pied-dterre  of  Ijdy  Laura  de 
Breteuil,  a  peeress  of  Britain,  descended  from  the  Roj-al  Irish  line 
cf  the  O'Briens.  Her  mother  was  superintendent  of  the  exiled 
Queen's  household  at  St.  Gcrmains,  where  they  had  sumptuously 
furnished  apartments ;  indeed,  the  whole  family  were  ferment  Jaco- 
bites, devoted  to  the  Stuart  cause ;  an  important  factor  in  one 
episode  in  Mademoiselle  de  Froulay's  life. 

The  second  storey  was  occupied  by  the  Countess  of  Breteuil 
Cbanneaax,  born  a  dc  Froulay,  who  was  a  source  of  wondering 
amusement  to  the  young  visitor.  She  was  a  vain,  exacting,  egotistical 
dowager,  who  kept  seven  waiting-women  employed  night  and  day 
with  her  whims  and  fancies.  She  never  went  out  save  in  a  gorgeous 
coach  drawn  by  six  horses,  with  coachman  and  four  lacqueys  in 
grand  livery,  looking,  as  her  brother-in-law  the  Baron — who  had  to  pay 
—sarcastically  remarked,  "  like  nothing  so  much  as  a  show  a.V^ASV«r 


l82 


The  Gentleman  s  Magaztm, 


The  Commandeur  de  Breteml  Chantecler  lived  in  the  third 
storey,  and  was,  to  alt  his  servants,  a  man  of  mj^tcry.  His  life  was 
quiet  and  rcgubr :  he  was  singularly  lenient  to  his  people ;  yet, 
whenever  he  walked  out  at  evening  with  a  hood  drawn  over  his  head, 
and  his  long  cloak  wrapped  closely  round  him,  his  domestics  would 
peer  curiously  from  the  windows,  and  invest  his  unobtrusive  habits 
with  a  romantic  interest,  all  of  which  was  to  the  young  mademoiselle 
full  of  charm  and  excitement. 

She  was  tlius  suddenly  transplanted  into  the  midst  of  a  family 
not  her  own,  so  critical  and  txig/ant  that  at  times  it  seemed  to  her 
a  veritable  thorn  bush.  The  relatives  with  whom  she  had  come  to 
spend  the  winter  were  the  Baron  and  Baronoe  dc  Brclcuil-Preuilly, 
who  retained  the  first  storey  for  themselves,  while  the  fourth  and 
topmost  floor  was  given  up  to  their  five  children.  A  beautiful 
apartment  in  tin's  latter  flat  was  assigned  to  the  visitor,  which 
especially  delighted  her  because  it  "gave"  on  to  the  gardens  of  the 
Tuileries ;  but  this  privilege  earned  her  the  enmity  of  her  cousin 
Emilie,  some  few  years  younger  than  herself,  who  had  to  turn  out 
of  it  into  three  liny  rooms  during  the  whole  of  her  cousin's  \'isit. 
There  was  a  natural  antipathy  between  the  two  girls ;  the  little 
guest  thought  Emilie  of  gigantic  proportions  for  her  age,  with 
enormous  hands  and  "  terrible  "  feet,  and  a  skin  like  a  nutmeg-grater ; 
and  in  after  life  was  angry  with  Voltaire  because  that  sliarp-eycd 
critic  of  his  kind  dared  to  call  this  self-same  Emilie  "  beautiful  and 
wise.'* 

The  household  of  the  wealthy  Baron  was  earned  on  in  the 
generous  opulent  style  prevalent  at  that  period  among  the  rich 
aristocracy.  The  house  was  gilded  and  decorated  in  the  gorgeous 
fasluon  then  affected ;  forty-four  servants  were  needed  to  keep  the 
establishment  going,  which  is  not  surprising,  for  twenty  extra  covers 
were  nightly  laid  for  guests  who  might  or  might  not  come  in  to 
supper.  The  Baron  had  a  fine  library  for  the  time,  and  cultivated 
letters,  or  men  of  letters  at  least.  Fontenellc  was  a  constant  visitor 
on  Tuesdays,  and,  being  of  good  family  as  well  as  a  literary  celebrity, 
was  always  welcomed  at  supper;  while  Rousseau  (not  Jean  Jacques), 
whose  lyrics  were  admired  but  whose  birth  was  obscure,  was  enter- 
tained only  at  early  dinner  ;  for  the  Baron's  complacent  patronage 
of  letters  never  overpassed  the  bounds  of  the  proprieties  by  asking 
him  to  supper  !  Just  as  in  our  day  people  on  the  boundaries  of  class, 
of  equivocal  undefined  position,  may  be  freely  asked  to  lunch,  but 
never  invited  to  the  more  solemn  festival  of  dinner.  In  two  hundred 
years  notlung  is  changed  save  the  designation  of  the  meaU  t 


f 


I 


TA^  Love  Story  of  an  Old  Marquise,       1 83 


\ 


There  vas  the  Due  de  St.  Simon,  too,  a  disagreeable  old  man, 
BOD  of  St.  Simon  of  the  famous  "  Memoirs/'  Ue  also  came 
frequently,  but  rarely  stayed  to  supper,  not  from  lack  of  the  requisite 
rank  but  because  of  his  wretched  health,  and,  bis  enemies  said, 
because  he  was  too  parsimonious  to  give  suppers  in  return.  Rousscau*£ 
sharp  tongue  did  not  spare  him— perhaps,  as  poets  will,  he  thus 
re\*enged  himself  for  unreturnable  aflronls :  noting  the  Doc'» 
jaundiced  complexion  and  "little  black  satanie  eyes"  he  likened 
them,  to  the  girl's  delight,  to  "  daix  charbotis  dam  une  omtUtlt  "  in  the 
pleasant  French  fashion  of  the  period,  whic:h  found  it  impossible  to 
be  witty  without  being  personal.  S/te  said  he  was  like  an  ugly  sick 
raven,  devoured  by  ambition  and  \'anily,  and  always  perched  upon 
his  ducal  crown. 

Into  all  this  stir  of  unaccustomed  life  came  the  young  heiress  in 
the  dawn  of  womanhood,  eager  after  her  peaceful  girlhood  in  the 
serene  atmosphere  of  the  Benedictine  nunnery  to  see  everything 
that  was  fit  for  eyes  so  fresh  and  innocent.  Though  a  spectator,  she 
took  little  part  in  all  that  went  on  around  her;  she  was  too  truly  the 
jeuneJilU  of  an  aristocratic  house  to  be  allowed  any  freedom  incom- 
patible with  the  strictest  supervision.  One  can  see  her,  demurely 
observant,  but  entrenched  behind  her  fine,  high-bred  reserve ;  seeing 
much,  saying  nothing,  storing  up  all  the  keen  new  impressions 
which  bit  into  her  vivid  young  brain  Uke  an  etching.  She  sat  straight 
up  on  a  backless  chair— no  gvrl  of  that  day  dreamed  of  placing  her- 
self on  a  chair  with  a  back  to  it,  while  to  have  taken  an  armchair 
would  have  been  considered  an  enormity — with  Iji  nri/it/ pu^rt'/e  et 
konnete^  which  her  aunt  had  given  her  to  study.  It  was  an  old 
edition  of  Poitiers,  giving  much  quaint  advice  as  to  etiquette  which 
had  become  obsolete ;  with  much  sound  practical  teaching  also  that 
sustained  Mademoiselle  in  the  social  functions  at  which,  in  her 
eventful  future,  she  was  to  shine  with  brilliance  and  distinction. 
Her  aunt,  the  Baronne,  was  an  invaluable  teacher  of  the  forms  to  be 
observed  in  every  conceivable  situation.  She  was  zgraside  datne^ 
placidly  beautiful,  of  the  unsmiling  Madonna  type,  to  whom  etiquette 
oxtd  form  were  as  the  law  of  life.  She  could  pronounce  "  Mon- 
teigneur "  with  the  exact  nuance  necessary  to  differentiate  it  when 
speaking  to  a  bishop  or  to  a  prince  of  the  blood,  an  accomplishment 
that  was  Justly  considered  among  those  who  knew  no  small  achieve* 
ment.  She  had  a  passion  for  preserving  the  minute  distinctions  of 
rank,  and  was  for  ever  impressing  on  her  children  the  shades  and 
niceties  of  deference  to  be  observed  in  the  daily  duties  and  occur- 
rences of  life.    Though  the  fashion  of  senditig  rttund  cups  and 


1 84 


The  Genileman's  Magazine, 


glasses  by  the  sons  of  the  house  was  the  mode  of  the  moment  in 
Paris  as  in  England,  it  was  not  favoured  by  this  arch-mistress  of 
manners ;  it  savoured  too  much  of  ihe  bour^oiiU^  she  said,  and 
accordingly  forbade  it. 

Presently,  into  this  calm  routine  of  regular  tasks  and  simple 
pleasures  came  a  disturbing  influence,  an  exquisite  new  experience 
that  the  young  girl,  fresh  from  tlic  cloistered  seclusion  of  Monti- 
villiers,  found  "sweetly  strange  and  strangely  sweet."  Jacobite  plots 
were  being  hatched  at  SL  Germains,  and  the  ground-floor  of  the 
Hdtel  de  Breteuil,  occupied  by  the  superintendent  of  the  exiled 
Queen's  household,  was  naturally  a  rendezvous  for  political  inter- 
views between  the  adherents  of  the  Old  Pretender.  Among  the 
most  active  of  these  was  George  Keith,  the  young  Earl  Marischal  of 
Scotland,  who  had  quite  recently,  with  all  Ihe  enthusiasm  of  a  con- 
vert, joined  the  ranks  of  the  Jacobites,  partly  owing  to  the  influence 
of  his  maternal  uncle  the  Duke  of  Perth,  whose  line  had  ever  been 
loyal  to  the  House  of  Stuart ;  but  chiefly,  perhaps,  because  he  had 
been  deprived  of  his  appointment  as  captain  of  the  Royal  Guards,  a 
deprivation  which,  in  young  hot-headed  fashion,  he  meant  to  avenge 
by  throwing  all  the  weight  of  his  wealth  and  position  on  the  side  of 
the  Jacobite  party. 

He  ift-as  introduced  to  the  salon  of  the  hospitable  Baron,  and 
there,  among  a  numerous  company,  the  young  Mademoiselle  de 
Froulay  met  him  for  the  first  lime.  He  was  just  twenty-five; 
handsome,  accomplished,  wise  for  his  years,  serious  because  of  Ihe 
tremendous  import  of  his  mission ;  she  was  about  fifteen,  on  the 
beautiful  tremulous  borderland  of  womanhood,  her  heart  wailing 
to  be  impressed  with  the  indelible  stamp  of  first  love.  They 
were  drawn  to  each  otlicr  by  that  indefinable  perfect  attmction 
of  two  strong  natures  mentally  akin  yet  physically  opposite ;  th^ 
looked  at  one  another  first  with  surprise,  then  with  interest ;  then 
the  room  was  empty  to  cither  if  the  other  was  absent.  Instinctively 
they  learned  the  art  of  speaking  to  each  other  without  saying  a 
word;  soon  they  dared  not  conwrse  in  the  presence  of  friends 
lest  their  trembling  voices  should  break  down  and  betray  their 
emotion.  It  was  the  simplest,  purest  love-idyll,  accompanied 
by  no  secret  kisses,  no  clandestine  meetings;  every  word,  every 
movement  was  in  the  presence  of  a  dozen  or  score  spectators,  each 
of  whom  would  have  remarked  censoriously  on  the  slightest  deviation 
6om  the  most  severe  propriety.  One  day,  chancing  for  a  few 
minutes  to  fmd  themselves  isolated  in  a  crowd  of  guests,  he  said  to 
bcr  suddenly,  with  all  the  diffident  shyness  of  young  passion : 


» 


» 


TAe  Love  Story  of  an  Old  Marquise,        1S5 

"  If  I  dared  to  love  you,  would  you  pardon  me?" 

"I  should  be  charmed,"  was  her  half  coqueitbb,  wholly  truthful 
reply. 

Hardly  another  word  was  said,  but  a  sweet  new  confidence  was 
established  between  them,  and,  whenever  they  dared,  they  looked  at 
each  other  with  the  perfect,  rapturous  content  that  is  the  birthright 
of  first,  unsullied  love. 

Six  weeks  or  two  months  of  this  happiness,  this  ever  fresh  delight, 
passed  thus,  vfben  her  aunt,  the  Baronne,  suggested  that  the  young 
heiress  should  take  a  few  lessons  in  Spanish  from  the  Earl  Marischal, 
who  was  an  unusually  good  linguist  for  his  time,  speaking  French, 
Spanish  and  Italian  as  well  as  his  native  tongue. 

"  Why  not  English  ?"  asked  the  Earl  Marischal,  thinking,  perhaps, 
of  the  day  when  he  might  take  this  peerless  French  maiden  as  his 
bride  to  his  romantic  Highland  home. 

•*  Ob,  not  English,  Monsieur,"  was  the  reply.  "  You  of  the  North 
learn  Southern  languages  ;  wc  of  the  South  look  still  farther  South ; 
we  all  naturally  turn  to  fine  climates,  the  land  of  sunshine^  the  land 
of  good  wine." 

But  what  did  it  matter  to  the  young  lovers  which  language  they 
studied  since  they  had  learned  from  each  other  the  softest  and  easiest 
language  of  the  world — that  of  life's  first  love  ? 

So  in  the  great  salon  Mademoiselle  de  Froulay  sat  on  her  high 
stool,  while  the  Earl  Marischal — "  milord  George  "  as  she  loved  to 
call  him  to  herself — seated  himself  behind  her  on  a  folding  chair. 
Madame  la  Baronne  was  not  far  away,  be  sure ;  her  sweet,  serious 
eyes,  "gray  as  those  of  an  eagle,"  watched  all  her  brood  wiiii  the 
never-winking  vigilance  of  the  bom  duenna.  Visitors  and  con- 
spirators came  and  went ;  other  Bretcuils,  from  their  various  apart- 
ments in  the  big  mansion,  looked  in;  but  the  Spanish  lessons 
went  on  at  their  appointed  times  with  praiseworthy  regularity.  Was 
much  Spanish  learnt?  She  was  an  apt  pupil  there  is  little  doubt, 
but  she  was  learning  sweeter  lessons  than  even  the  sweet  Spanish 
tongue. 

*'  I  have  been  translating  a  verse  from  English  into  French,"  be  said 
to  her  in  a  low  tone  one  evening  as  they  sat  demurely  "  studying." 

"  Wliat  is  it  ?  "  she  asked,  full  of  eager  interest  and  admiration  for 
ail  be  might  say  or  do. 

"  It  is  a  quatrain  that  my  father  composed  for  me ;  I  should  like 
you  to  know  it.  I  have  rendered  it  into  blank  verse,  according  to 
ibe  English  (aahion,  which  is  verse  without  rhyme,  but  not  without 
reason,  as  you  wiU  sec" 

mm.  ccxci.    v<x  3048,  ^ 


l«6 


Tfte  Gentlentan* s  Magazine. 


He  handed  her  a  slip  of  paper— a  paper  that  she  stUl  treasured 
when  her  hair  was  gray — on  which  was  written : 

**Quand  vosyeux,  en  tuussant,  ft'oovraient  i  la  Itunii-rc, 
Chacan  vous  sourioit,  mon  fUs,  et  vous  pleuriet. 
VWn  sj  Wen,  (^u'un  jour,  a.  voire  dcrniirc  bcurCi 
Cbacun  verse  des  pleor*  et  qu'on  vous  voie  sourire." 

Another  evening  he  told  her,  in  a  quiet  monotone  that  might  have 
been  tlie  mutleiings  of  Spanish  grammar,  the  latest  story  from 
London.  A  rich  Dutch  heiress  had  fled  to  England  with  one  of  the 
adherents  of  the  detested  William  of  Orange.  Her  relatives  had  no 
clue  as  to  her  whereabouts,  so  they  caused  an  advertisement  to 
appear  in  the  London  papers,  beseeclung  her  to  come  back  to  the 
home  her  absence  had  made  desolate  ;  or,  if  she  would  not  return,  at 
least  to  send  them  the  key  of  the  tea-chest  which  she  had,  by  mistake, 
carried  off  with  her ! 

A  simple  enough  storj',  in  Irulh,  but  the  lever,  nevertheless,  which 
moved  the  balance  in  which  hung  great  fortunes  !  Anything  whereby 
the  Orangists — whom,  as  good  Jacobites,  they  virtuously  hated — were 
held  up  to  ridicule  would  have  tickled  the  lively  imagination  of 
firteen,  and  the  two  sat  laughing  decorously,  delighted  to  share  a  joke, 
"however  small.  Emilie,  )^^  gauche  cousin,  scowling  sulkily  from  her 
comer,  concluded,  with  tlie  angry  sensitiveness  of  a  child,  that  they 
leere  laughing  at  her,  though  nothing  could  have  been  further  from 
their  thoughts,  which,  with  the  egotism  of  love,  simply  flowed  from 
one  to  the  other !  However,  as  soon  as  Emilie  could  obtain  a 
bearing  she  made  such  spiteful,  envious  remarks,  that  the  Earl 
Marischal,  foUo^ving  his  inclination,  and  in  self-defence,  made  a 
formal  proposal  for  the  hand  of  Mademoiselle  de  Froulay. 

This  was  a  serious  matter !  A  de  Froulay  bom,  and  an  heiress 
to  boot,  was  not  to  be  promised  in  marriage  lightly.  The  proposal 
vas,  with  due  ceremony,  submitted  to  her  father,  her  grandmother — 
a  quaint  old  lady  who  wore  five  rows  of  corkscrew  curls,  and  an  open 
coat  over  a  skirt  embroidered  with  all  the  beasts  of  the  ark  in  siU-er 
thread — and  her  eldest  aunt,  the  vain,  dry-hcatled  woman  residing  in 
the  Hotel  Breleuil  who  lived  only  for  show  and  vanity.  Made- 
moiselle waited  for  their  decision  with  rosy  pictures  floating  nebulous, 
unbidden,  like  sunset  clouds  across  her  menu  Ivision ;  pictures,  tUas  1 
that  too  soon  were  rudely  brushed  aside  by  bitter  realities. 

"  He  is  a  ProlesUuit,  a  Calvinist  I "  almoict  shrieked  her  aunt,  llie 
Countess,  when  the  object  of  the  family  condave  w;ls  declared. 

Poor  little  Mademoiselle!     It  was  the  dreadful  truth,  though 


Tk$  Lmx  Simy  ^  mm  Oid  JKvts^       1S7 


BO  ooe  had  CBqpnedKftD  is  ■'iTpjiiii  anes  adccK.  cnw^ 
doubt,  became  aesiraX  goad  Jmsxms  wsss  cood  CsiSiriass; 
Questianed  oa  the  sojec:,  ce  Ezi  VTrSr^raa  ovzoi  x.  an^^, 
ti  nim^l  fai  MM  Jy ,  icdaag  too  «e£  ssk  ae  ^as  aos  "^^^t^  a  aocae^ 
faopdesa^  lawpamfcibh,  faetvets  ^na  aac  is  iavc  *^*'*'  ttw^,  xhoc 
«as  00  more  Id  be  said.  "Vth  Ae  tiiLtwaj-g  m^iAsjuu  mSach  a 
the  lost  Irarhihe  of  the  Qkc&l  i^pk  thscm  ^is  s  soo^iietiK 
bohaik  of  jytlnMilf,  ViiliiaiiiTi  de  Froebr  bo«ed  ha  poor 
little  taOcring  faeut  to  the  iaetittbie,  nthoac  hesaanoe^  seeftaog 
DO  comptoaust,  thmfcfng  of  i»  ■i^'im  Their  rmoi%ir  pax 
jomig  dream  vas  coded  byau^tanmeof  pWEMn?  saSenxig;  and 
the  £art  Marisdalkft  '-*"**'*"'*';  far  his  000007,  vbere,  leDdercd 
the  more  '^«^*^"^  bf  the  cznel  coodosiaa  of  las  brre-idriU  be 
duev  hinisrif  wkfa  iccUess  Ast^pod  into  tbe  copyracy  vbich 
coded  in  the  disastroos  risxi^  of  i7i5< 

HisvasDohalfheaztedaD^iaDoe;  his  methods  voe  too  dedsiw 
and  direct  to  admit  of  any  doobe  as  to  whkh  caose  he  had  espoused. 
He  maiched  at  the  head  of  a  company  of  nobles  to  the  town  of  Aber- 
deen, where  at  the  maiket  cross  he  prodaimcd  King  James  VIII^ 
and,  for  a  few  brief  wedcsi  town  and  district,  in  a  foot's  paradise  of 
delusion,  were  subject  to  Jacobite  rulers.  Then  came  the  day  of 
awakening,  the  disastrous  day  of  Sherifimuir,  where  the  rising  hopes 
of  the  Stuart  party  were  dispersed  like  mist-wreaths  before  the  wind. 
The  Earl  Marischal  commanded  two  squadrons,  and  in  the  utter 
rout  managed  to  escape  to  the  continent 

Some  time  after  this  he  wrote  a  letter  to  Madame  la  Baronnc,  full 
of  sadness  and  desp^,  telling  her  of  the  grievous  failure  of  the 
Jacobite  enterprise;  adding  that  his  estates  were  forfeited  and  he 
hims^  attainted. 

Bereft  of  his  lands,  a  price  on  his  head,  he  wandered  to  various 
courts  of  Europe,  wasting  the  best  years  of  his  life,  as  did  so  many 
others,  for  the  foolish  futile  Jacobite  cause.  He  intrigued  with 
Spsun,  and,  two  years  after  the  "  fifteen,"  again  attempted  to  misc  a 
rebellion  in  Scotland  in  the  abortive  campaign  organised  by  Cardinal 
Alberoni ;  then,  again  escaping  with  disaster,  he  sought  refuge  at  the 
Spanish  Court,  where  for  many  years  he  was  intermittently  entrusted 
with  political  missions.  Finally,  in  middle  life  he  drifted  to  tlio 
Court  of  Prussia,  where  the  Great  Frederick,  perceiving  the  worth 
and  wasted  abilities  of  this  unfortunate  nobleman,  ofTcrod  him  bin 
kingly  friendship,  and  showered  honours  on  him,  in  appreciation  of 
his  brilliant  quoUties.  He  created  him  Knight  of  the  Black  Eaglo  of 
Prussia;  he  appointed  him  Governor  of  a  diitrict  in  Switzerland  ; 


x88 


The  Gentlcmans  Magaziiu, 


and,  in  1751,  sent  him  as  Prussian  Ambassador  to  the  Court  of 
France.  •  •  •  *  • 

Half  a  lifetime  had  passed.  The  young  Mademoiselle  de 
Froulay  had  long  since  become  the  Marquise  de  Crdquy,  a  very 
great  lady,  and  distinguished  in  that  vicious  age  for  the  exquisite 
propriety  of  her  life.  She  had  become  a  grandmother  too ;  but 
though  a  true  wife,  with  an  admiring  apprecialion  of  her  husband'5 
many  excellent  virtues,  yet  in  the  treasure  house  of  her  memory 
illumined  by  the  halo  that  hovers  round  happy  days,  she  cherished 
the  romantic  recollection  of  her  first  love  which  had  blossomed  and 
suffered  blighL  The  Earl  Marischal  of  Scotland  was  still  her  hero, 
still  the  fauldess  young  lover  who  liad  never  fidten  in  her  esteem 
because  of  the  wear  of  life's  daily  demands  and  duties.  She  had  no 
thought  of  ever  seeing  him  again ;  nought  save  a  remembrance 
which  was,  as  she  said,  "  toujours  honorable  ti  chh-t."  Then,  one  day, 
they  met  in  the  presence  of  Madame  de  Ncvers,  he  in  the  white- 
haired  seventies,  she  with  the  griefs  and  joys  of  more  than  half  a 
century  traced  with  Time's  graver  on  her  face  and  heart. 

"Listen,"  he  said  to  her,  after  their  first  formal  greetings,  "  listen 
to  the  only  French  verse  I  have  ever  made,  perhaps  the  only  reproach 
I  have  ever  directed  to  you : 

"  Uq  tfait  lano^  par  caprice 

M'aUvignit  tlaiu  mon  priotcinps. 
J*cn  porte  U  cicatrice 

Encor  tous  oies  cheveux  blaocS' 
**Cniignes  les  nuax  qn'amour  cause, 
Et  plaignCK  un  imeiit^ 
Qui  n'a  point  cueilli  la  rose, 
Et  qiielVpinea  blessi." 

They  were  both  deeply  afiected.  Tears  glittered  in  his  proud  eyes. 
.  .  .  She  was  transported  in  thought  to  the  beautiful  unfulfilled  dream 
of  their  youth.     After  a  few  moments  of  emotional  silence  she  asked  : 

"  Are  you  soon  going  back  to  the  King  of  Prussia  ?  Sliall  we  be 
separated  for  ever  ?    Are  you  still  unconverted  ?" 

"  I  am  yours  after  as  before  death,"  he  said  simply.  "  I 
loved  you  too  well  not  to  embrace  your  religion.  What  other  faith 
could  hare  given  you  the  strength  to  make  such  an  unmurmuring 
sacrifice?    I  have  become  a  Catholic  in  sjjirit  and  in  truth." 

They  never  met  again,  but  that  declaration  ft-as,  for  the  old 
Marquise,  a  sweet  assurance  for  the  rest  of  her  long  life.  With  the 
serene  absolute  faith  of  her  religion  she  looked  forward  In  quiet  hope 
to  the  happy  future,  when  those  two,  who  bad  been  so  mercilessly 
parted  in  their  youth,  would  meet  again  in  the  Iranscti  -  of 

die  Bright  Uercafict.  jAVt-  ,....-.. 


iS5 


THE    EVOLUTION   OF   THE 
MODERN  GENTLEMAN. 

IT  is  a  little  disappninTing  tbjt  sach  an  ardeiit  sodctogst  as  ICr. 
HertieTt  Spencer  has  not  dcTX>ted  a  portisa  of  h»  imTVTi^ 
cneigrto  a  dqnrtnient  of  science  which  is  stiktly  anrhropotogpca! — 
die  evolutioa  of  a  gendemazL  The  title  of  gentlesan  oovcn  in- 
tcfpretadm  of  a  tboosand  shades,  azid  is  S3  cxKn-eniesr^j  vagae  that 
the  reseazches  of  reisatile  genius  would  hare  a  wide  fidd  for 
borrowii^  cot  the  first  notioos  of  gentilitj  firom  the  most  piimiilie 
stzata.  True  enough,  the  perrexse  interTO^doa  of  the  old  rhpncr 
voold  seem  to  place  such  ipTcstigation  oioder  lixcis  : 

VEIkb  Ad>nt  ddred  and  Ere  ^aa. 

But  we  have  learned  now  to  ph3oscphise  without  foondic^  on  a 
state  of  nature,  and  we  arc  entitled  to  a  sospidon  that  the  notion 
of  gentility  is  traceable  from  a  cmde  and  early  derelopment  It 
is  a  culpable  sin  of  omission  to  be  laid  to  the  accoont  of  those 
people  who  have  raked  tc^etber  the  data  of  anthropology  from  the 
ft^-kne  of  countless  ages  that  they  have  left  us  in  outer  darkness 
cm  the  origin  of  this  interesting  sentiment.  When  we  do  recognise 
the  gentleman,  he  comes  in  on  the  full  tide  of  an  advanced  drilisa- 
tion.  He  has  already  the  brilliance  and  wit  of  the  modem  gentleman, 
and  we  are  left  in  wonderment  to  look  for  the  link  of  coimection 
between  him  and  the  days  <rf^his  remote  parentage,  when  bis  ancestors 
sought  to  assimilate  the  qualities  of  their  respected  dead  relatiTes 
by  makirtg  them  the  meet  considerable  item  of  a  substantial  dinner. 
In  the  absence  of  convincing  evident  to  the  contrary  the  assumption 
may  be  permitted  that  this  laudable  desire,  in  spite  of  the  distinctly 
disagreeable  form  in  which  it  was  meant  to  be  realised,  was  a  spedes 
of  reverent  homa^^  to  "  superior  quality  "  which  must  be  taken  as 
a  ron^  synonym  for  primitiiw  gentility. 

Beyond  this  it  would  scarcely  be  safe  to  infer  much  m<xe  from 
Eesearches  among  the  Yncas  or  the  Kbonds.    But  among  andent 


igo 


The  Gentleman  s  Magazine, 


historians  Herodotus*  inclinations  and  tastes  set  strongly  in  the 
direction  of  such  interesting  questions,  and  from  a  patient  collation 
of  his  entertaining  tales  it  would  be  possible  even  to  piece  together 
types  of  the  primitive  gentlefolk.  There  were  people  in  Athens 
who  set  great  store  by  a  long  pedigree— a  pedigree  so  long,  in  fact, 
that  some  professed  to  be  descended  from  an  asparagus. 

There  were  the  great  folk  of  Eg)'pt  and  the  lesser  folk,  and  the 
privileges  of  the  former  were  considerable.  They  indulged  the 
luxury  of  emtjalming  in  its  most  expensive  form  ;  they  were  entitled 
for  a  consideration  to  have  their  brains  drawn  out  through  the  nostrils 
with  an  iron  hook,  and  to  have  the  body  stuffed  with  "  pure  myrrh, 
pounded  cassia,  and  other  perfumes,  frankincense  excepted."  Hero- 
dotus also  tells  us  that  superior  quality  had  substantial  recognition, 
especially  among  the  Royal  Scythians.  In  the  burial  riles  there  was 
a  wonderful  elaboration  of  detail.  "In  the  remaining  space  of  the 
grave  they  bury  one  of  the  king's  ladies,  having  strangled  her,  and 
his  cu|}-bearer,  a  cook,  a  groom,  a  page,  a  courier,  and  horses,  and 
firstlings  of  everything  else,  and  golden  goblets;  they  make  no  use 
of  silver  and  brass," 

There  is  another  charming  story  of  Hlppocleides,  the  son  of 
Tisandcr,  who  surpassed  the  Athenians  in  wealth  and  beauty.  It 
throws  a  sidelight  on  the  accomplishments  of  the  people  of  quality. 
Hlppocleides  had  come  among  a  company  of  gentlemen  to  woo 
the  hand  of  the  wealthy  Qeisthenes'  daughter.  '*When  the  day  for 
the  consummation  of  the  marriage  arrived,  and  for  the  declaration 
of  Cleisthencs  himself,  whom  he  would  choose  of  lliem  all,  Cleislhenes 
having  sacrificed  a  hundred  oxen,  entertained  both  the  suitors  them- 
selves and  all  the  Sicyonians ;  and  when  they  had  concluded  the 
feast  the  suitors  had  a  contest  about  music,  and  any  subject  proposed 
for  conversation.  As  the  drinking  went  on,  Hlppocleides,  who 
much  attracted  the  attention  of  the  rest,  ordered  the  flute  player  to 
play  a  dance ;  and  when  the  flute  player  obeyed  he  began  to  dance ; 
and  he  danced,  probably  so  as  to  please  himself;  but  Cleistfacoes 
seeing  it  beheld  the  whole  matter  wiih  suspicion.  Afterwards, 
Hippodeidcs,  having  rested  awhile,  ordered  someone  to  bring  in  a 
table  ;  and  when  the  table  came  in  he  first  danced  Laconian  figures 
on  it,  and  then  Attic  ones ;  and  in  the  third  place,  having  leant  his 
head  on  the  table  he  gesticulated  with  his  legs.  But  Cleislhenes, 
when  he  danced  the  first  and  second  time,  revolted  from  the  tliought 
of  having  Hlppocleides  for  his  son-in-law,  on  account  of  his  dancing 
and  want  of  decorum,  yet  restrained  himself,  not  wishing  to  burst  out 
■gainst  him ;  but  when  he  saw  him  gesticulating  will)  his  legs,  he  wu- 


The  EvoiuiioH  of  ike  Modern  Gentleman.     191 


\ 


no  longer  able  to  restrain  biaiself,  and  said,  '  Son  of  Tisander,  you 
hare  danced  away  your  marriage.'  But  Hippocleides  answered  :  'Oh, 
it's  all  one  to  Hippocleides.'  Hence  it  became  a  proverb."  But  the 
prototype  of  the  modern  gentleman  is  something  diiTerent  from  this. 
There  is  a  degree  of  narvet^  in  the  earliest  types  of  which  the  well- 
bred  man  would  protest  his  innocence. 

The  Athenian  gentleman  of  antiquity  is  really  the  fount  and 
source  of  the  modem  social  virtues.  The  wisdom  of  the  philosopher 
had  defined  him  as  the  kuAdc  MyaOtict  but  unfortunately  the  moral 
and  spiritual  significance  of  the  term  speedily  disappeared.  The 
nature  of  gentility  chose  to  develop  the  more  material  concep- 
tion of  the  "man  made  up  to  the  nail,"  which  was  the  rougher 
Roman  idea.  Contrasts  between  ideals  and  reality  are  always  in^ 
structive,  and  very  often  amusing.  The  scrupulous  attention  which 
the  Greek  philosopher  paid  to  the  elaboration  of  the  gentleman 
makes  a  chapter  of  ethics  read  like  a  handbook  of  modem  etiquette. 
Aristotle's  magnificent  man  and  liigh-minded  man,  and  their  opposites, 
exactly  embody  the  idea  of  what  a  gentleman  should  be  and  what 
he  should  not.  There  is  just  the  taint  of  moral  pcndantry,  a  kind 
of  intellectual  snobbery  in  the  descriptions  which  is  apt  to  place  the 
gentleman  in  a  somewhat  ridiculous  light.  By  piecing  together  his 
various  characteristics  as  they  are  scattered  through  a  Classification 
of  the  Virtues  and  Vices,  we  have  the  conditions  of  "  quality  "  in  a 
mosaic 

"The  magnificent  man  is  like  a  connoisseur  in  art;  he  has  the 
faculty  of  perceiving  what  is  suitable,  and  of  spending  Lu^e  sums  of 
money  with  good  taste.  .  ,  .  He  will  spend  his  money,  too,  in  a 
cheerful  and  lavish  spirit,  as  a  minute  calculation  of  expense  is  a 
mark  of  meanness.  He  will  consider  how  a  work  can  be  made 
most  beautiful  and  most  suitable,  rather  than  how  much  it  will  cost, 
ai>d  how  it  can  be  done  in  the  cheapest  way.  .  .  .  [Magnificence] 
displays  itself  on  such  private  occasions  as  occur  once  in  a  lifetime 
—t^.  marriage  and  the  like." 

Whereas  the  ungentlemanly  fellow  "  exceeds  in  spending  more 
than  is  nght,  for  he  spends  large  sums  on  triUcs  and  nuikes  a  display 
which  is  offensive  to  good  taste,  as,  e^.  by  entertaining  members  of 
his  club  at  a  breakfast  which  is  as  sumptuous  as  a  wedding  breakfast^ 
and  if  he  provides  a  comic  chorus,  by  bringing  the  members  of  it  on 
the  stage  in  purple  dresses,  after  the  manner  of  tlic  Megarians." 
After  this  criticwm  in  lesthetics  he  presents  the  roan  of  quality  in 
aaotbex  lighL  "  It  would  seem,  too,  that  the  high-minded  man 
poncHes  such  greatness  as  belongs  to  every  virtue.    It  would  b« 


193 


The  Gentkma^Cs  Magazine. 


wholly  inconsistent  with  the  character  of  the  high-minded  man  to 
run  away  in  hot  haste,  or  to  commit  a  crime ;  for  what  should  t>e 
his  object  in  doing  a  disgraceful  action,  if  nothing  Ls  great  in  his 
eyes?  .  .  .  Such  honour  as  is  paid  by  ordinary  people  and  on  trivial 
grounds,  he  will  utterly  despise,  as  he  deserves  something  better  than 
this.  ...  He  will  not  be  exceedingly  elated  by  good,  or  excessively 
depressed  by  ill-fortune  ;  for  he  is  not  affected  in  this  way  by  honour 
itself  as  if  honour  tuere  the  greatest  thing  in  the  world.  Again,  the 
high-minded  man  is  not  fond  of  encountering  small  dangers,  nor  is 
he  fond  of  encountering  dangers  at  all,  as  there  are  few  things  which 
he  values  enough  to  endanger  himself  for  them.  .  .  . 

"  Accordingly  he  will  tell  the  truth  loo,  except  when  he  is  ironical, 
although  he  will  use  irony  in  dealing  with  ordinary  people."  With 
the  same  gravity  Aristotle  proceeds:  "It  seems  too  that  the  high- 
minded  man  will  be  slow  in  his  movements,  his  voice  will  be  deep, 
and  his  manner  of  speaking  sedate,  for  it  is  not  likely  that  a  man 
will  be  in  a  hurry,  if  there  are  not  many  things  that  he  cares  for,  or 
that  he  will  be  emphatic,  if  he  does  not  regardanything  as  important, 
and  these  are  the  causes  which  moke  people  speak  in  shrill  tones 
and  use  rapid  movements." 

Unfortunately,  or  rather  fortunately,  the  Greek  gentleman  de- 
clined to  conform  to  this  prim  and  rigid  canon  of  gentility.  Earlier 
than  this  by  a  few  centuries  the  lyric  poets  embodied  in  their  verses 
the  non-ethical  interpretation  of  the  sentiment.  It  is  on  this  inter- 
pretation that  the  modern  spirit  has  seized,  and  in  accordance  with 
it  the  modern  idea  has  been  moulded.  The  philosophers'  gentleman 
is  still  the  endless  theme  of  sundry  homilies,  but  he  is  none  the  less 
an  abstraction  and  is  likely  to  remain  so.  Horace  Walpolc  protested 
that  he  was  not  a  learned  man,  only  a  gentleman,  who  pottered 
among  chipped  vases  and  ladies'  epigrams  and  court  scandal ;  he 
would  have  shuddered  if  his  gay  friends  had  read  the  AristotcUan 
meaning  into  his  title  of  gentleman.  The  man  "  foursquare  without 
a  flaw  "  was  an  instructive  ideal,  but  for  bone  of  our  bone  and  flesh 
of  our  flesh  we  must  turn  back  from  the  vapounngs  of  philosophy  to 
the  truer  instincts  of  poetry.  Lesbian  song,  for  instance,  welled  up 
from  the  pure  springs  of  a  busy  commercial  class.  But  active 
commercial  life,  the  restless  and  varied  existence  of  those  luurdy 
folk  whose  business  was  in  the  waters,  had  in  it  little  that  was  sordid 
and  nothing  that  was  prosaic.  Tbe  old  nobility  cast  their  spell  upon 
society,  and  tinged  with  romance  the  merest  commonplaces  of  life. 
Love,  wine,  politics,  or  warfare  are  the  inexhaustible  theme  Tliese 
n'rid pictaresi  Earned  in  tcattercd  fragmenU  of  verse,  profess  to  deal 


The  EtfohUion  of  ike  Modem  Gentleman,    193 

with  nothing  but  the  truth.  They  have  at  times  seemed  IQcely  to 
pay  the  price  of  their  candour,  and  have  perhaps  been  rightly  de- 
scribed as  too  realistic  for  the  cold  morality  of  Northern  Protestantism. 
Here  at  any  rate  is  the  gentleman's  life  as  it  really  was  lived,  and  in 
the  life  of  the  modem  gentleman  history  repeats  itself.  There  is 
none  of  the  mawkishness  of  the  erode  poetry  of  the  Roman  deca- 
dence. The  Greek  gentleman  is  unschooled  in  artifice :  his  very 
excesses  are  half  redeemed  by  their  freshness. 

There  is  the  old  story  of  the  man  and  the  maid,  but  the  old  story 
possesses  more  than  its  ordinary  interest  when  it  is  told  by  Alcaeuj 
and  Si^pho  and  in  their  own  words.  Alcaeus  writes  ardently  in 
praise  of  his  mistress,  *'pur^  soft-smiling  Sappho."  He  would  speak 
with  her,  but  shame  prevents  him.  The  lady  replies  in  his  own 
metre,  but  will  take  neither  his  meaning  nor  his  pleasure.  Her 
suspkicm  is  conveyed  to  him  in  a  chilling  hypothesis.  Shame  would 
ncA  prevent  him  from  open  speech  with  her,  did  he  not  harbour 
some  evil  intent  or  thought  But  Sappho  herself  had  to  feel  that 
love  was  not  so  fair  as  fickle.  The  scattered  fragments  of  hex  verse 
are  a  pathetic  chapter  of  the  intensest  human  passion.  The  sorrow 
ai)d  anguish  that  are  of  the  essence  of  love  and  are  mingled  with 
love's  enchantment  are  drawn  in  sore  travail  from  the  souL  There 
is  a  world  of  unuttered  passion  in  her  complaining  of  Eros  (Gk.  Ipvt) : 

lovtf  that  *'  bitter  sweet  irresistible  beast" 

Cmel }  but  love  makes  all  that  love  him  well 
As  wise  as  heaven  and  crueller  than  hell. 
Me  hath  love  made  more  bitter  towards  thee 
Than  death  toward  man  ;  but  were  I  made  as  He 
Who  hath  made  all  things  to  break  them  one  by  one, 
If  my  feet  trod  upon  the  stars  and  sun. 
And  souls  of  men  as  His  have  always  trod, 
God  knows  I  might  be  crueller  than  God.  * 

Modem  prudery  has  seen  fit  to  lift  its  skirts  and  tread  daintily 
by  the  most  beautiful  of  those  sacred  relics.  Modernism  is  un- 
speakably shocked  at  the  unconventionality— that  is  what  pricks  the 
modem  social  sense — of  such  regrets  as  the  following — 

Af'Svict  fiiw  A  ffXAtn 
winrn,  n^  V  Ipx^'"'  *P«i 

*  Swmbome,  Anoctoria. 

*  *  The  moon  has  set,  and  the  Pleiads,  and  it  is  midnight,  and  the  hoar  goes  by, 
bat  I  lie  alone.* 


194 


The  GentUmans  Magazine. 


This  is  only  a  benighted  fragment,  and  perhaps  we  dare  not  attempt 
an  interpretation  of  it  out  of  its  context ;  but  against  it  and  a  few 
others  Uke  it  have  been  levelled  the  venomed  lances  of  outraged 
prudery,  and  the  poor  lady  has  been  covered  with  epithets  which 
have  little  flavour  of  charity. 

The  home  of  the  Lesbian  was  chosen  by  nature  to  be  the  sacred 
precinct  of  love.  In  the  white  heat  of  those  southern  gardens  the 
languor  of  love  as  the  languor  of  laden  flowers  settled  on  all  created 
things.  Gardens  lit  nith  ablaze  of  colour;  fountains  that  sprayed 
refreshment  on  the  weariness  of  noontide,  orchards  where  the 
quivering  leaves  ministered  shade  and  fruit ;  music  of  nature  that 
never  ended,  day  or  night  This  was  the  environment  of  the  poetry 
of  passion. 

The  verses  of  Alcaeus  read  like  a  prophecy  of  our  Cavalier  fore- 
fathers, the  gay  gentlemen  of  Oxfordshire  who  rode  well  to  hounds 
and  drew  their  swords  for  the  king.  The  storms  of  politics  no  less 
than  the  storms  of  love  have  gone  to  the  fashioning  of  a  gentleman. 
And  wine,  "  wine  that  maketh  glad  the  heart  of  man,"  Alcaeus  has 
cro\vned  with  a  rarer  chaplet  than  the  flowers  with  which  he  often 
decked  the  brimming  cup.  The  soldier  poet  is  familiar  to  our 
history  and  fiction,  especially  of  the  se^-enleenth  century. 

Now,  ye  wild  blades,  thai  make  loose  inns  yoor  stage 
To  Ttpout  forth  the  acts  of  tbU  &sd  age, 
Stoot  Edgchill  fight,  the  NcwUrrics  or  ihc  West, 
And  nortliern  ckJihcs,  where  yon  stitl  fought  l>est ; 
Your  strar^e  escapes,  your  dangers  void  of  fear. 
When  bullets  flew  between  the  head  and  car. 
Whether  you  fought  by  Damnie  or  the  Spirit, 
Of  you  I  speak. 

Naturally  their  loyalty  and  their  wine  were  boon  companions  ; 
Bring  the  bowl  which  yon  boast, 

FtU  it  up  to  the  brim  ; 
Tis  to  him  we  love  most, 

And  to  all  who  love  htm. 
Brave  gallants,  stand  Qp, 

And  avQUDt,  yc  base  cutn. 
Were  there  death  in  the  ojp, 

Here's  0  health  to  King  Charles  I 

The  riot  of  wine  road  mirth  is  preserved  in  the  following  venes 
from  "  Wine,  Women  and  Song  " : 

In  the  public  bouse  to  die 

Is  my  resolution ; 
Let  wine  to  my  Up*  be  lu^ 

At  life's  dissolution  j 


TJk^  Evoimtum  of  tie  Modem  GemUemau    395 

Wia  fftA  CKit'irtiim, 

Canlier  poetmsten  cf  oar  cnm  kind. 

Alcaens  was  a  better  pod  -Aaxix  v^r^tm^  viiersK  onr  paar 
TOldaJccs  were  mosc  mmbfe  vjdi  titeir  swords  ssar  vxii  liKar 
Ttnei.  When  it  came  to  s«ard  pbj  die  T-rKThr"  gk7:>"Tr  Knaed 
onthesideof  pnideDce;  ibf;  after  aC, 

Be  wso  "jpff  ibb  mBf-  ^^tw 

Bat  the  irresastifaSc  "  genilexBis  of  booarr,*'  id  zneet  vbccL  Crsmr^in 
was  baxd  at  woric  Tnining  bis  tspcen,  did  itiSSis  sernix  fir  iu 
sacxed  Majesty  thin  for  the  saccd  Xiasi  zad  x  woclf  ut  so  pDft 
Ubd  on  bis  it^mes  at  least  to  a^7  tc.  rbos  tie  secsa-f  'isit  cc  :bs 
old  c{ut^ph  of — 


Wbo  fanfce  tic  }>vs  tf  Go£  Z3k£  b>c  ans  aesrsv 
The  lore-malciiig  <^  tbe  Gredcs  rans^  ':^  ^r^^rtr^r  zr:,::  fi,i  j-j 
with  a  touch  of  l^;hter  romaixs.  Tbs  '^^jff'gr  v£X  czrn&d  cc:  wt^ 
aU  tbe  aits  that  a  lorer  coiJd  cxxssazA  fcr  "Ha  urrice  c^  :ii  btuvr^^ 
and  of  an  the  gende  arts  tbe  sercad*  V2s  iL*  j^ti^tsr.  izti.  zi.'jvt 
atnactive.  Mr.  Symoads  \vnafrr^  tbe  foUc/wia?  ^it  1-^  r-ivt  r.,t:ai 
sang  by  an  Athenian  \oxts  UDder  it  -rL-xivir  ctf  ili  Er>:^dei : 

Siine  Ibnh,  1=7  ^^£c=  fe-,. 

My  loTtJj-  rn>  cot ! 
S««et  bod  of  batrrr,  TsrC-ig  U  bearre£*i  snoe ! 

Tim  funs  &oe 
Of  aD  tlvt  ticccB  ^i<'^  '<^  «^~'*^  cutL : 

Wby  wC:  :b=c  si= 
These  Tor£s  '.lii  vile  iLee  ^c  1  Lap;ier  berth, 

TLoB  iboe^^d^coe.' 

K«y,  (far  ms  aoE :  be:  nse  ! 

And  let  Hsj  imogerei 
Be  to  me  u  tlie  li^ 

Wliidi  anioas  nigfat 
For  all  his  doods  and  ifaidovs  cumot  dwe  awar ! 

It  is  Melaiubiia  cries  : 
Arise!     Arise! 

And  beam  apoa  faim  vhb  tfay  spirit's  day  1 
Nay,  ere  he  dies. 

Be  piti&il,  aod  ease 
TIk  UngDor  of  bb  knre^  Endbdes  I 


■J.  A.  SynoodL    (OiBtto  &  WndH,  18S4.) 


196 


The  GeniUmans  Magazine, 


It  is  not  liard,  either,  to  find  out  what  were  the  accessories  and 
perquisites  of  the  gentle  life.  The  Athenian  gentleman  had  other 
pleasures  besides  a  well  appointed  table.  For,  after  all,  cxceUent  cakes 
and  loaves,  wine-bibbing,  the  wearing  of  garlands,  and  a  provident 
begetting  of  children  were  minor  and  even  sordid  cares.  No  doubt  it 
was  a  pleasant  employment  to  loiter  over  a  dessert  of  figs  and  peas 
and  beans,  to  roast  myrtle  benies  and  beech  nuts  at  the  fire,  and  to 
taste  with  the  precision  of  a  connoisseur  the  most  delicate  Attic 
confectionery ;  but  if  a  gentleman  was  to  be  something  more  than  an 
epicure  and  fly  the  reproach  of  belonging  to  a  mere  "  City  of  Pigs  " 
he  had  to  affect  a  much  wider  range  of  interests.  A  categorical 
enumeration  of  these  would  be  tedious,  but  it  was  the  profession  of  a 
gentleman  to  admire  painting  and  embroider)-,  to  acquire  valuables 
in  gold  and  ivory,  to  practise  the  arts  and  music,  to  indulge  rhapso- 
dists,  actors,  and  dancers.  A  subsidiary  item  was  an  army  of  tutors, 
wet-nurses,  dry-nurses,  tirc-woraen,  barbers,  cooks,  and  of  course 
doctors. 

It  was  not  the  genius  of  the  Roman  lo  add  much  that  was 
original  to  the  sentiment^  but  he  strutted  pompously  in  magnificent 
and  borrowed  plumes.  Greece  set  the  fashion,  and  Rome  pat  on 
the  old-fashioned  bra^ciy  without  an  attempt  at  improvisation  on 
her  own  account.  At  first  it  sat  awkwardly,  and  was  nc%'eT  worn 
tf  illiout  some  apology  or  with  an  uneasy  consciousness  of  guilt  But 
at  length  the  uneasy  feeling  passed  away  and  the  Roman  wore  his 
gilded  accomplishments  with  an  air  of  original  proprietorship.  And 
fine  gentlemen  tliere  were  in  plenty,  though  the  idea  of  gentility  was 
cast  in  a  more  material  and  luxurious  mould.  Moral  pedants  like 
Cato  kept  haughtily  aloof  from  contamination  with  the  accursed 
thing,  but  conservatism  of  that  sort  was  whimsical  and  problematic. 
There  is  no  need  to  search  for  illustrations  of  the  amours  and 
symposium  of  the  Roman  gentleman  in  the  erotic  poetry  of  Ladn 
literature.    The  pages  of  Roman  histor)-  blaze  with  his  brillLincc. 

The  infection  spread  to  the  Senate  and  the  camp,  and  a  gcntle- 
tnan's  romance  hovered  over  the  "House"  and  perched  upon  the 
Imperial  Eagles.  Pompey,  we  are  told,  was  so  handsome  that 
Roman  ladies  wished  to  bite  him ;  and  modem  biographers  of  the 
great  Julius  have  complained  because  Cxsar's  good  looks  and  cliarm- 
ing  manners  made  him  the  object  of  malicious  scandal  which 
involved  him  in  endless  complications  and  impossible  intrigues  with 
half  the  married  women  of  Rome  !  The  distracted  Cicero  at  an 
important  crisis  could  do  nothing  but  wring  his  hands  and  spitefully 
bemoan  the  inactivity  of  his  colleague  Pompey,  who  tat  speechlea 


Thi  EvQluiion  of  ike  Modem  Gentleman. 


in  ParUarnent  admiring  his  6ne  clothes.  And  yet  Cicero  himself 
sedulously  cultivated  the  life  of  a  gendeman,  and  in  bis  pleadings 
before  the  jary  indulged  in  raptcroas  excursions  into  the  fairyland 
of  art  and  rashion,  and,  fearful  lest  be  should  stop  short  of  any  one 
accomplisbmcnt  tn  the  cxacUng  title,  with  pathetic  canity  he  look  to 
anting  poetry.  A  gentleman  poetaster  is  always  a  picturesque  figure, 
but  the  father  of  the  fatherland  in  such  an  association  is  as  ridiculous 
as  Frederick  the  Great  galloping  from  a  lost  battle  wth  a  quire  of  bad 
verses  in  one  pocket  and  a  ^*ia]  of  poison  in  the  other.  Cicero 
represents  what  is  best  in  Roman  society.  He  was  a  ntftwx  hom» 
and  had  little  to  boast  of  in  the  imagines  which  were  the  pride  and 
glory  of  the  great  Patrician  houses.  After  him  we  have  plenty  of  well 
preserved  portraits  of  the  Roman  gentleinan,  but  they  are  such  as  to 
dazxle  and  confuse  without  delighting  the  eye.  The  whole  is  too 
plainly  oventudied ;  there  is  a  lavishness  in  detail  which  vitiates 
ihe  general  effect  The  excesses  of  the  Greek  gentleman  were 
picturesque  divergences  from  a  prim  canon  of  taste ;  the  excesses 
of  the  Roman  gentleman  were  only  the  painful  exaggerations  of  a 
part  that  was  already  overdone. 

The  gigantic  resolution  which  inaugurated  the  triumph  of  the 
Teutonic  nations  altered  social  no  less  than  political  conditions.  It 
ao  excellent  tonic,  which  braced  a  nervous  system  enervated 
nost  past  hope.  It  seemed  at  first  as  if  this  terrible  physic  would 
stroy  the  system  with  its  pitiless  ravages,  but  the  wreckage  of  the 
"old  constitution  harboured  vitality  enough  to  support  the  strong 
infusion  of  new  life.  The  immediate  prototype  of  the  modem 
gentleman  occupies  an  interesting  period  of  transition  between  the 
old  and  new  schools.  Christianity  put  a  new  face  on  many  aspects 
of  the  old  Roman  civilisation,  and  from  the  nature  of  things  it 
played  havoc  with  the  traditional  sentiment  of  gentility.  And  here 
again  there  is  no  need  to  evolve  the  man  of  quality  from  the 
diecadenl  literature  of  a  dotard  civilisation,  for  he  is  part  and  parcel 
of  history.  The  Hfe  of  Augustine  is  a  curious  episode  in  the  long 
history  of  this  sentiment  of  gentility.  In  a  little  volume  of  the 
Confessions  there  are  prefaced  categorically  the  main  facts  of  a  life 
full  of  incident  and  interest  styled  "Compendiosa  D.  August  ini  vila 
cum  suis  annorum  notis." '  Under  \ht praapua  facta  is  a  statement 
of  his  conversion  which  marks  an  interesting  di\-ision — '*  Tandem 
Delesti  voce  pcrcussus  convcrtitur."  It  is  interesting  because  previous 
I  the  *'  percussion  "  which  effected  his  conversion  he  appears  to  have 

•  4$tguitiHi  CwfiuimHM  Libri  Trtdicim.  roriHU  iftjmd  Kogei  ei  F.  Oienwritt 


198 


TIic  Genliefttan* s  Alagazine, 


typified  the  gentleman  of  the  Inter  I^tin  culture.  He  "professes" 
rhetoric  at  Carthage,  and  pays  overmuch  respect  to  astrology ;  he 
repairs  to  Rome ;  later  he  professes  the  artcm  oraioriam^  falls  under 
the  influence  of  Amhrose,  and  is  gathered  in  sinum  Eciksta 
€athoU(a,  Under  the  lenz  of  an  ascetic,  and  espedally  an  ascetic 
taking  posterity  for  his  father  confessor,  the  virtues  and  ^ices  of 
the  gentleman  are  viewed  with  Utile  discrimination  and  dismissed 
with  scant  respect. 

On  the  vanity  of  elegant  accomplishments  he  delivers  himself 
thus  :  "Scducebamur  et  seduccbamus,  falsi  atquc  fallentes  in  vants 
cupiditatibus,  el  palam  per  dociritms,  quas  liberates  vocanf^  occulte 
autcm  falso  nomine  religionis ;  hie  superbi,  ibi  snpcrstitiosi,  ubiquc 
vani.  Hac  popularis  gloriae  sectantes  inanitatem,  usque  ad  thcatricos 
plausus  et  contentiosa  carmina,  et  agonem,  coronarum  foeDearum,  ct 
spectaculorum  nugas,  ct  intemperantiam  libidinum."  In  the  fourth 
book  he  asks  with  the  indignation  of  rhetoric  what  the  ten  categories 
of  Aristotle  had  availed  him  when  a  pupil  under  a  Carthaginian 
master,  who  is  humorously  described  lecturing  with  extraordinary 
vigour,  "  buccis  typho  crepantibus  "  !  He  lays  it  rather  bitterly  to  the 
charge  of  the  liberal  arts  that  they  did  not  save  him  from  the  lust  of 
the  flesh :  "  Et  quid  raihi  proderat,  quod  omncs  libros  artium  quas 
liberales  voeant,  tunc  nequissimus  malarum  cupidiiatura  servus,  per 
TOc  ipsum  Icgi  et  intellexi,  quoscumque  legerc  polui?" 

But  after  his  conversion  and  baptism  he  still  retains  his  old 
sestheiic  tastes,  and  in  his  most  ecstatic  moments  he  confesses  how 
deeply  the  swell  of  mighty  music  moved  him:  "Quantum  flevi 
in  hymnis  et  canticis  tuis,  suave  sonantis  Ecclesi<c  tuae  vodbus 
commotus  acriterl  Voces  illx  influebant  auribus  meis,  et  eliqua- 
batur  Veritas  lua  in  cor  mcum ;  ct  cxzcstuabai  inde  affectus  pictatis, 
ct  currcbant  lacrj'mx,  et  bene  mihi  crai  cum  eis." 

Speaking  of  the  pleasures  of  the  ear  in  a  similar  strain  he 
confesses  his  partiality  :  "  Aliquando  enim  plus  mihi  videor  honoris  eis 
tribuere  quamdecet;  dum  ipsis  Sanctis  diclis  religiosius,  et  ardentiuB 
sentio  moveri  onlmos  nostros  in  Bammam  pietatis,  ctun  ita  cantaatur, 
quam  si  non  ita  cantarentur." 

To  be  sure  the  reason  of  his  commendation  is  a  pious  one : 
"Adducor . .  .  cantandiconsuetudinemapprobareinecclcsia;  utpcr 
obleclamcnta  auriura  infirmior  animus  in  affectum  pietatis  assurgat." 

He  bridles  himself  also  against  the  temptations  of  the  eye,  and 
in  his  enumeration  of  these  he  is  evidently  taking  a  retrospective 
glance  at  his  owti  former  tastes.  The  passage  is  well  worth  quoting, 
and  is  in  his  usual  omatc  and  abundant  style.  "  Quam  innumerabilii, 


TiU  ^smUtatt  of  Uu  M^dtrm  GaUlamsm,    199 


rTuiis  ambus  «t  apAda,  m  fcsbbos,  oVginrnlBi  nsb^  et  oijnsqDftJ 
okofi  bbootiaaibaift  pktaris  etiua  dHvsbqoe  fiemeoci^  atqtte 
«*«tti  iiinwiiBm  alque  moderatam  «(  [mm  agntfioixwem  fec^sef 
tmi  niuli<  iMifaitL  irtriirtrnifit  hnrnfnrr  w1  illiTrhfir  nrrrlnrmn  1 ' 
Tlw  Biodem  jyjMhnnri  of  our  o«n  bad  iriQ  reoMnber  wiUi j 
pride  tloC  lie  does  oot  derive  his  Htfe  exdodvety  &oai  the  social 
^-irtoes  of  HePcnian.    There  ms  an  abonghul  snb«tnte  which 
provided  the  musexy  far  a  more  preSeodoiB  ioipoKtaiioa.    Befonti 
the  Roonm  soldier  or  the  Romftxicuhnzc  had  pBSSed  into  these  idaodi: 
there  wen  gentlefolk  of  a  son,  people  of  quality  with  an  innate 
of  the  finer  things  around  them.     Men  of  leieen  hkail 
I  or  Dion  Cassias  were  at  pains  to  git^e  a  studied  mtsnpi«»^ 
1  of  the  distant  islandersL     A  patxiotic  Scotsman  attributes 
I  paxdonable  superstition  snch  descriptiona  of  the  Caledonian  of  j 
I  dmes  as  include  him  in  a  species  of  "  semi-aquatic  anitna^ ' 
who  passed  the  greater  portion  of  bis  time  sirimming  in  the  lochs.** 
Grtek  roDumce  and  the  tales  of  CirtruTeUed  men  boldly  dis- 
cotined  of  ooe-lboted  folk  and  of  strange  fantasies  in  the  ro}-al  lijia] 
"Thulc.   "They"  (the  ancients),  says  Gibbon,  "sometimes  amuscdJ 
•  ttncy  by  filling  the  \-acam  spaces  irith  headless  men,  or  rather 
with  horrid    and    cloven-footed    satyrs,    with    fabulous 
anrs,  and  with  human  pigmies,  who  waged  a  bold  and  doubtful 
lirai^ire  against  the  cranes."    Of  fiction  and  ftiiry  tale  of  this  sort 
nothing  can  be  made ;  all  wc  have  to  go  upon  in  the  way  of  conjec- 
ture ore  the  KjoAkeNmoddin^  or  kitchen  middens,  the  relics  of  the 
fiift  Age,  yet  even  this  prehistoric  epoch  has  its  affinity  with  the 
later  ages  of  culture.    "  Even  if  many  linlcs  in  the  chain  that  binds 
^tbe  present  to  the  past  be  tost,  notwithstanding  the  facility  with 
rhich  the  Scot  has  been  credited  for  constructing  a  pedigree,  wc 
have  doubtless  his  living  representative  among  us  still,  were  we  only 
acute  enough  to  discover  him."^    A  rudimeniary  conception  of  art 
expressed  itself  in  homely  and  natural  fashion.     Lubbock  speaks  < 
the  passion  for  self-omamcntation  as  prevailing  among  the  lowest,  at] 
much  as  if  not  more  than  among  the  more  civilised  races  of  man- 
itind.'    Another  hbtorian  finds  in  the  beads  and  amulets  of  the 
gra%*e]  deposits,  in  the  charncl  houses  of  a  rude  and  hoary  antiquity 
in  the  rudely  ornamented  urm,  in  the  axe-heads  of  exquisite  work- 
man&liip,  in  the  mouldering  relics  of  the  funeral  feast,  an  cxpressio 
,  of  the  ambition  to  realise  one's  strength  in  the  contcmpkilion  of  the 
firork  of  one's  bands,  an  impressive  monitor  "that  so  it  has  been 

'  Mackinnon,  CitUufv  in  Earljr  SfOtiaaJ^ 


20O 


The  Gentleman  s  Magazine^ 


from  of  yore,  for  the  same  soul  moves  in  primeval  savage  and 
modem  philosopher,  though  it  reveals  itself  after  a  different  fashion." 

The  West  slowly  took  the  impression  of  Roman  culture.  It 
passed  from  Gaul  to  the  British  shores ;  and  for  long  it  was  accounted 
the  fascination  of  a  magic  for  the  undoing  of  liberty,  a  delicious  but 
resistless  power.  That  Thule  possessed  a  professor  for  itself  is 
probably  no  more  than  the  fancy  of  Martial  and  Juvenal,  but  that 
Britain  was  the  conquest  of  the  Gallic  schoolmaster  is  one  side  of 
sober  truth. 

It  would  be  idle  to  look  for  any  great  refinement  of  taste  among 
a  wild  untamed  people  who  were  as  yet  only  the  bewildered 
spectators  of  an  invader  who  came  with  stranger  and  more  potent 
weapons  than  the  sword  and  flaming  brand.  When  at  length  the 
glory  of  the  new  culture  and  the  religion  of  Christ  had  stirred  tliem 
to  emulation,  they  turned  to  the  building  of  abiding  monuments, 
which  with  their  grave  and  decorous  proportions  were  the  silent 
prophets  of  the  triumphs  of  western  architecture.  The  genius  and 
cuUure  of  every  age  have  studied  to  reproduce  themselves  in 
the  elegance  and  magnificence  of  public  buildings.  "L'archi- 
tccture  a  ^l^  jusqu'au  quinzieme  siecle  le  registre  principal  de 
rhumaniti5  .  .  .  toutc  id^c  populairc  comme  loute  loi  religieuse 
a  eu  ses  monuments ;  le  genre  humain  enfin  n'a  rien  pens^ 
d'important  qu'il  ne  I'ait  ^crit  en  pierre  .  .  .  L'architccture  est  le 
grand  Uvre  de  I'humanitt!,  I'cxprcssion  principale  dc  Phommc  &  ses 
divers  tftats  de  ddveloppement,  soit  comme  force,  soit  comme 
intelligence."' 

Romance  has  made  King  Arthur  the  centre  of  a  large  cj-cle  of 
legends,  and  the  character  of  the  king  has  been  woven  at  the  poet's 
pleasure  and  fancy  to  wear  well  on  soldier,  saint,  or  gentleman.  He 
was  born  of  some  ancient  God,  the  idol  of  bardic  enthusiasm,  but 
under  the  hand  of  Geoffrey  rose  into  splendid  prominence  in 
mcdiicval  romance.  At  the  end  of  the  twelfth  century,  when  a  historian 
had  to  clothe  his  thoughts  in  language  suitable  to  the  exacting  taste 
of  the  gentle  life,  Jocdinc,  the  monk  of  Fumess  Abbey,  made  a 
biography  of  the  less  shadowy  figure  of  Kentigern.  It  was  his 
business  to  present  to  his  readers  not  so  much  a  saint  as  the  hero  of 
a  modern  novel,  *'  to  clothe  so  precious  a  treasure,  if  not  in  gold  tissue 
and  silk  at  least  in  clean  linen."  Of  Kentigern  himself  nothing  can 
be  known  with  any  certainty  :  it  is  doubtful  if  his  rigid  asceticism 
would  fall  in  with  the  easy  m  /^  •  •     ,an  in  orden 

a  span  of  ceiUuries  later.    11.  .  '     _    :  :.  of  him  that 

*  Victor  Hugo,  N6tn-l>*m*  4*  iiaiu 


I 

I 


Tks  Evoiution  of  (he  Modem  Gtnthman.    201 

**  tbe  Sight  or  tooch  of  the  most  beautiful  maiden  had  no  more  effect 
tqpon  him  than  the  hardest  fiint"  For  the  age  of  the  biographer  we 
[  this  was  a  most  unpalatable  reminiscence — even  of  a  saint 
;  arc  not  surprised  to  find  that  the  Celtic  monk  savoured  more 
of  tbe  gentleman  than  the  Calvinistic  Puritin.  He  tempered  his 
piety  with  that  cool  sense  of  refreshment  which  King  James  sighed 
for  in  the  Presbyterian  ism  of  his  Northern  KJngdom.  The  Celt 
indulged  the  human  passion  for  ornament,  and  his  piety  glowed 
liom  an  environment  dainty  and  delicate  with  a  hundred  and  one 
pleanng  trifles.  "Even  yet,"  says  Dr.  Mackinnon,  "it  requires  no 
small  courage  on  the  part  of  the  candidate  for  the  favour  of  a  Presby- 
terian congregation  to  appear  on  the  day  of  the  preadiing  match  with 
a  ring  on  his  finger  !  I  hare  known  more  than  one  aspirant  for  a 
parish  who  was  prudent  enough  to  denude  himself  of  this  emblem  of 
worldlincss,  and  carry  it  in  his  vest  pocket  for  the  occasion.'*  Bui  those 
innocent  concessions  to  refined  habits  of  living  did  nothing  to 
traduce  the  Celtic  monk  from  the  purpose  of  his  calling.  By  an 
ingenious  trick  of  plastic  art,  the  representations  of  Pagan  mytho- 
logy were  enlisted  in  the  service  of  the  Christian  Church.  The 
gorgeous  bestiaries  of  the  Middle  Ages  are  traceable  to  the  cultivation 
of  morality  by  the  symbolism  of  animal  life.  The  centaurs  and 
winged  genii  were  bat  the  old  Pagan  pictures  set  in  a  new  frame. 
Orpheus  was  rapidly  converted  into  the  Good  Shepherd,  and  the 
dragon  which  guarded  Andromeda  made  a  tolerable  whale  of  sufficient 
capacity  at  least  for  Jonah.  That  immortal  allegory,  richly  sculp- 
tfifcd,  served  the  ecclesiastics  well  when  speech  was  helpless  before 
the  great  mysteries  of  religion.  It  may  have  been  a  little  crude,  but 
as  a  symbol  of  the  resurrection  the  interpretation  was  unmistakable 
and  irresistible.  Those  who  wish  to  harvest  all  the  attainable 
information  of  a  bjgone  culture  must  examine  with  their  own  eyes 
the  quaint  museum  of  curios  that  tdl  thctr  own  story  of  the  gentle. 
life  of  the  dark  centuries. 

Epilogue. 

The  eighteenth  century,  the  century  of  gentlemen,  is  most  represen- 
tative of  the  style  and  sentiment  of  modem  gentility.  The  preceding 
centuries  contented  themselves  rather  with  conning  isolated  lessons 
learned  from  the  old  schools  of  fashion  and  culture.  There  is  to  be 
found  a  curious  gentry  in  the  p.igcs  of  history  and  romance ;  a 
robuster  sort  tj'piGcd  by  Duke  Humphrey  of  Oloucester,  a  man  of 
ttttexs  who  combined  his  bookish  tastes  with  a  genius  for  intrigue 
in  politics  and  the  embarrassments  of  love.     There  are  the  gentle 

TOL.  ccxci.    so.  2048.  p 


202 


The  Genliemans  Magazine, 


pUgrims  of  Chaucer's  creation,  who  rode  upon  a  day  to  Canterbury  in 
all  the  bravery  in  which  the  observant  worldly  wise  poet  si;t  them 
forth.  There  are  the  bold  knights  who  could  pay  the  prettiest  com- 
pliments to  the  Virgin  Queen,  and  win  or  lose  a  fortune  in  the  high 
seas  with  the  reckless  gaiety  of  the  pirate  who  was  nothing  if  not  a 
gentleman.  There  are  the  knavish  gentlemen  of  history  like 
Wharton,  whose  manners  were  shining  and  irresistible,  who  was 
nercrthcless,  in  the  conceit  of  the  old  Tory,  "  the  most  universal 
villain  I  ever  knew  " — the  Satan  of  apostate  Whiggism. 

But  my  Lord  Chesterfield  of  the  eifjhleentli  century  is  the  best  epi- 
logue of  the  fine  sentiment.  He  gathers  together  all  the  subject  matter 
pertaining  to  it,  and  presents  his  son  with  the  ethics  of  gentility  in  a 
body  of  precise  and  terse  laws.  In  his  advice  there  is  a  punctilious- 
ness that  would  bear  comparison  with  Aristotle,  though  further  com- 
parison is  impossible  in  the  matter  of  morals.  Such  comments  as 
the  following  must  have  a  familiar  ring  to  those  who  are  on  much 
less  intimate  terms  with  Aristotle's  Ethics  than  with  their  Bible : 
"  To  conclude  this  article  :  never  walk  fast  in  the  street,  which  is  a 
mark  of  vulgarity,  ill  befitting  the  character  of  a  gentleman  or  a  man 
of  fashion,  though  it  may  be  tolerable  in  a  tradesman  ; "  or,  "  In  my 
mind  there  is  notliing  so  illiberal  and  so  ill  bred  as  audible  laughter.  It 
is  low  buffoonery,  or  silly  accidents,  that  always  excite  laughter ;  and  tliat 
is  what  people  of  sense  or  breeding  should  show  themselves  above." 
It  was  Chesterfield's  experience,  he  tells  his  son,  that  virtue  to  keep 
its  lustre  must  be  polished  like  gold.  But  the  furbished  virtues  must 
shower  their  blandishments  on  all,  not  merely  on  *' shining  and  dis- 
tinguished figures,  such  as  ministers,  wils,  and  beauties."  The  com- 
mon run  of  ugly  women  and  middling  men  were  to  be  courted  with  the 
fiameassiduity,  forthat  was  the  price  of  popularity  and  general  applause, 
Mauvaise  honte  was  productive  only  of  bitter  animosities.  "  I  have 
been  in  this  case,  and  often  wished  an  obscure  acquaintance  at  the 
de%il  for  meeting  and  taking  notice  of  me,  when  I  was  in  what  I 
thought  and  called  fine  company."  But  the  results  he  found  were 
unpleasant.  Music,  to  be  sure,  was  a  liberal  art,  but  a  man  piping 
himself  at  a  concert  was  in  degradation.  A  gentleman  should  pay 
the  fiddler,  but  never  fiddle  himself  I  His  obser\'atlon  on  die  osten- 
tation of  learning  is  very  shrewd  and  discerning :  "  Wear  your 
learning  like  your  watch,  in  a  private  pocket,  and  do  not  pull  it  out, 
and  strike  it,  merely  to  show  thai  >^u  liave  one."  Polished  and 
shining  manners  are  prelude  and  burden  of  the  strain ;  but  nothing 
overmuch,  mannered^or  moralled.  "  We  may  bliiue,"  says  my  lord, 
"  like  the  sun  in  the  temperate  2oac,  without  scorcliing." 

DANIEL  ;0IIN$T02r. 


ac^ 


THE  RED  KINGS  DREAM, 

■■  If  he  left  off  dROSD^*  TveeOedee  ntforc^  **  yxCi.  be  =c«^eR.  Y»  ic 
od^  m  sort  afdngkihisdmH.  If  ibiilzacvaa  ^a  «ue  joc'<£  £9  cc:  ^c« 
cndle." — 72^  tU  Imkim^  Gta. 

NIGH17S  hodi— azid  aE  &e  deep  Uixsh  roses  psle, 
Tlie  Tallej  steeped  in  dev,  acd  o'er  the  bul 
(Cravn'd  with  dark  fizs)  a,  shzoodin^  misty  tuI — 

One  «atcfaii%  o'er  the  ymr,  Tfaeie  all  is  sd3. 
And  seems  bat  to  exist  for  those  looe  eyes 

Nov  fcffping  T^3.     Lov  there  sees  the  star 
Which  faci^iitly  lit  the  aznre  er'nizig  skieSf 

And  some  £um  streak  of  grey,  from  East  afar, 
Tdb  of  %.  moniiz^  when  the  world  will  be 

Kot  for  <s>e  watch  alone,  but  l^bily  gleam 
For  many ;  and  there  dawns  reali^ — 

Or  are  we  alwap  i^iantoms  in  a  cream  ? 

Whose  dream  ?    My  dream  ?    Soreiy  the  dream  is  mine 

Here^  in  the  silence.    Yet,  at  waking  day. 
Love !  I  would  rather  that  the  dream  was  thine 

Than  I  without  thee  walked  Love's  living  way  ! 
Thy  dream  !  Bat  then  at  this  calm  hush,  when  night 

Broods  o'er  still  sleeping  day,  life's  mysteries 
Seem  nearer,  truer,  than  the  deeds  of  light — 

My  soul  and  thine  alike  as  part  of  these. 
Our  dream  ?  Then,  waking,  shall  each  cease  to  be  ? 

With  dawn  of  day  the  rose  is  deeper  hue ; 
When  day  shall  dawn  will  not  my  love  for  thee 

Know  all  that  sooice  of  truth  whence  comes  the  true  ? 

O  Red  King,  dreaming  !  what  are  we  and  ours 
If  thou  dost  wake  ?    And  even  what  are  we 

Whilst  thou  dost  slumber  thro'  our  living  hours  7 
And  what  is  life,  and  what  reality  ? 


204  '^^^^  GeniUmafis  Magazine* 

All  that  we  hnotv  is  change.    The  fact  of  seeing 

Stamps  it  but  passing  shadow,  which  may  last 
One  year  or  many  ;  but  it's  changeful  being, 

So  late  the  future,  soon  must  be  the  past. 
Thou  wak'st,  we  pass  away — but  passing  where  ? 

Going  out    But  what  is  outside  ?    Dies  the  flame  : 
And  has  earth  passed  with  that  one  flick'ring  flare? 

Did  the  faint  rushlight  give  the  world  a  name? 

Comes  there  a  colour  o'er  the  rose — a  sound 

Where  hang  the  creepers  in  untrain'd  array, 
Festoon'd  for  fcathcr'd  homes ;  a  rustling  sound 

Of  wings,  to  flap  the  freshen'd  air  of  day. 
The  chill  stream  bathes  the  feet  of  rising  dawn, 

The  river  bird  knows  where  the  rushes  bend 
With  Morning's  breath,  the  dew  be-tasselt'd  awn, 

Her  pink-tipped  fingers  raise  and  greeting  send 
From  rosy  lips  o'er  all  the  earlli.     Dost  still 

Slumber  adown  the  wood,  strange,  sleeping  King  ? 
There  is  a  golden  glow  o'er  yonder  hill, 

And  at  thy  feet  hath  sprung  the  fairy  ring 
From  warm,  moist  earth,  which  all  thy  dreams  have  made 

Enchanted  ground.    Then,  if  I,  dream-form'd,  rove 
Only  while  thou  art  here  in  slumber  laid, 

Dream  thou  of  Earth's  one  dream  of  Heaven — Ia/h  ! 

I  am  but  living  in  that  dream  ?  I  care 

For  that  not  one  spent  petal  of  the  rose — 
So  where  I  am  my  love  is  also  there  ! 

Then  let  the  Red  King's  eyes  in  slumber  close. 
Or  if  he  wake  and  we  are  outside?  Well — 

We  are  outside  together^  and  dim  space 
Has  no  black  darkness.     In  a  dream,  to  dwell 

With  Love  were  worth  full  many  firmer  place  ! 
The  pines  stand  sentinel  to  guard  this  way, 

The  cup-moss  here  is  at  its  loveliest. 
Dream  on  t  I'hc  cold  cares  of  prosaic  day 

May  gain  a  glamour  from  this  couch  of  rest. 

The  waters  thro*  the  cold,  dull  afternoon 
Flow  on.    The  sunny  ripple  comes  again. 

The  silver  beams  of  Autumn's  harvest  moon 
Will  follow  long  dark  nights.     And  what  U  gain 


Tk$  Red  Kin^^s  Dream,  305 

Is  loss  80  soon — ^how  do  we  even  dare 

To  think  that  such  is  life— in  troth  and  all? 
The  flitting  shadows  mock  us  everywhere, 

There  is  no  answer  to  the  spirit  call 
For  substance.    O I  Red  King,  I  kiss  thy  brow, 
Sleep  on  !  For  thou  hast  dream'd  sweet  dreams  for  me, 

And  what  was  not  sweet  I  forgive  thee  now — 
*Tis  such  a  fraction  of  eternity 

Thy  slumber  takes.    Yet  would  I  pray  thee,  sleep. 
Dream  on  !  For  sometimes  waking  is  a  sorrow  ; 

While  in  this  dream,  I  know,  but  shadows  weep, 
Bat  cannot  tell  who  weeps  in  that  to-morrow ! 

E.  U.  RUTHERFORD. 


3o6 


Tke  GentUmati  s  Magazine, 


TABLE    TALK. 


A  Holiday  Suggestion. 

TO  those  (including,  as  I  hope,  the  majority  of  my  readers)  who  do 
not  find  the  slaughter  of  grouse  or  any  other  form  of  destruc- 
tion an  indispensable  accompaniment  of  a  holiday,  and  who  have  not 
mapped  out  schemes  of  Alpine  climbing  or  seaside  ablution,  and  yet 
feel  it  incumbent  on  tl)em  to  quit  London  for  awhile — a  duty  or 
obligation  which  weighs  lightly  on  me — let  me  commend  the 
revisiting  of  some  group  of  our  English  cathedral  churches.  Of 
course,  I  do  not  prohibit  an  exploration  of  the  whole.  Nowhere,  to 
my  thinking,  can  repose  be  found  more  peaceful,  or  more  enchanted, 
than  in  a  quiet  cathedral  close  with  the  daws  swarming  around 
the  towers  and  clamouring  without  disturbing  the  calm.  Mine 
is  a  seal  without  knowledge.  I  am  shamefully  ignorant  of  archi- 
lecture  of  all  sorts,  and  especially  of  ecclesiastical  architecture,  yet 
I  know  no  form  of  man's  work  that  appeals  to  me  so  directly  and 
so  strongly.  I  do  not  think  I  could  bear  to  Uve  the  rest  of  my  life 
in  a  place  such  as  Wells,  Lichfield,  or  Ely,  as  I  would  scarcely  on 
any  conditions  forswear  the  intellectual  collision  and  unrest  of 
London.  Yet  I  am  not  sure  that  to  do  so,  to  spend  one's  life  drink- 
ing in  and  absorbing,  so  to  speak,  every  phase  of  beauty  and  delight 
to  be  drawn  from  one  Gothic  building,  such  as  Wells,  would  not  be 
as  pleasurable  and  remunerative  as  retiring,  as  Byron  suggests,  to  the 
desert  for  a  dwelling-place. 

With  one  fail  spirit  for  my  minister. 

For  every  cathedral  church,  and  I  know  all  that  are  within  practical 
rcacii  in  Western  Europe,  has  a  physiognomy  as  distinct  as  that  of  a 
beloved  woman.  There  may  be  rhapsody  iu  the  comparison,  but 
there  is  no  irreverence. 

Engush  Cathedral  Churches. 

LET  the  reader  summon  up  his  memories,  for  I  will  not  assume 
that  there  is  one  who  cannot  do  so,  of  Durham,  York,  and 
Lincohi,  of  reterborougli,  Norwich,  and  Ely,  of  Cloacesler, 
Worcester,  and  Hereford,  of  Canterbury,  of  Salisbury,  of  Winches- 
ter, of  Exeter,  of  Wells,  and  say,  if  he  dares,  wliich  he  likes  beat     I 


Table  Talk. 


aoy 


use  no  qualifying  adjective  concerning  these  edifices,  since,  in  fact,  I 
[lack  the  courage  so  to  do.  The  language  of  eulogy  seems  weak  and 
powerless  to  cbatacterise  our  superb  fanes.  It  seems  to  me  as  if  any 
one  of  them  might  justify  a  life's  devotion,  and  there  are,  I  believe, 
those  who  dwell  beside  them  who  yield  them  such.  I  am  willing  to 
admit  the  claims  of  edifices  such  as  are  to  be  seen  in  Rouen, 
Amiens,  Rheims,  Paris,  Orleans,  Bourges,  and  Chartres,  some  of 
them,  perhaps,  more  brilliant  than  anything  that  we  can  show.  But 
our  English  architects  seem  to  have  consciously  or  unconsciously 
absorbed  the  influence  of  English  surroundings,  and  our  English 
churches  have  a  reposeful  beauty  which  I  find  nowhere  else.  Let  the 
reader  pardon  mean  outburst  in  which  I  do  not  often  indulge.  The 
summer  brings  with  tt  "immortal  longings,"  and  I  would  like  to 
infect  one  here  and  there  of  my  readers  with  the  notion  of  breathing 
the  balmy  atmosphere  of  the  English  close,  and  contemplating  once 
more  the  glories  of  an  English  cathedral 

A  Society  for  the  Protection  of  the  English  Language. 

A  FRIEND  of  mine,  a  scholar  of  high  position  and  editor  of 
a  well-known  blerary  periodical,  suggests  the  formation  of 
a  society  for  the  protection  of  the  English  language,  and  surely 
something  of  the  kind  seems  to  be  needed.  In  presence  of  the 
assaults  made  upon  it  by  those  who  should  be  its  defenders,  it 
calls  for  protectors  as  loudly  as  do  the  children,  animals,  and  birds 
which  we  are  always  trying  to  defend.  Possessors  of  one  of  the 
noblest  and  richest  tongues  that  man  has  devised  or  obtained,  we 
treat  it  with  neglect  equally  incomprehensible  and  shameful.  It 
is  painful  to  contrast  Uie  cultivation  of  style  which  prevails  in 
Fiance  and  extends  to  Spain,  Italy,  and  Belgium,  with  the  neglect, 
almost  amounting  to  contempt,  exhibited  in  England.  Ignorance 
and  rapidity  of  production  are  responsible  for  the  slovenliness  of 
much  of  our  Press  work.  It  would  be  futile,  however,  to  pretend 
that  the  writers  for  the  Press  are  the  only  offenders.  Scarcely 
one  of  our  producers  of  history,  science,  or  beUes  lettres  is  there  that 
extends  the  slightest  consideration  or  homage  to  our  language. 
Most  of  them,  indeed,  might  almost  be  charged  with  mangling 
purposely  the  bosom  from  which  they  draw  their  sustenance. 

Respect  Paid  to  Ehcush  in  Past  Times. 

IT  was  not  always  thus.      In  those  Tudor  times  in  which  our 
language  took  the  shape,  lovely  and  majestic,  tt  has  long  borne, 
and  stiU  at  times  exhibits,  men  prized  it  as 

Tbe  richest  Ireaiure  that  out  wit  kffoids. 


208 


The  GenthmarCs  Magazine. 


In  lines  which  should  live  for  ever  in  men's  hearts,  Saraucl  Daniel, 
the  poet,  animated  by  a  fine  spirit  of  prophecy,  asks — 

Ot  should  we,  carelesse,  come  beluode  the  rest 

In  powre  of  wordcs,  that  goc  bcrore  in  worth* 
Whereas  our  accent,  cquall  to  the  best, 

Is  able  grtfttcr  wonders  to  bring  forlh  : 
When  all  that  cucr  holler  spirits  expresi 

Cumea  bellred  by  iJie  patience  of  the  North  ? 
And  who,  in  time,  knowes  whither  we  maj  send 

The  treasure  of  our  tongue,  to  what  stringe  shores 
This  gaine  of  our  t)est'gIory  shall  be  sent, 

T*  enrich  vnVnowing  Nations  with  oor  stores? 
What  worlds  in  th'  yet  xnfonned  Occident 

May  come  rcfm'd  with  Ih*  accents  that  arc  ours? 
Or,  who  can  tell  for  what  great  worke  in  hand 
The  grotnes  of  onr  Stile  is  now  ordain'd  7 

I  quote,  not  as  I  fear  for  the  first  timev  though  it  is  very  long 
since  I  used  them,  these  words,  the  beauty  and  justice  of  which  can- 
not easily  be  ovcr-praiscd,  using  for  the  purpose,  since  the  poem 
whence  ihey  are  taken,  "  Musophilus,"  is  not  even  now  easily  acces- 
sible in  a  modern  form,  the  edition  of  1602.  The  mission  of  our 
tongue  is  not  yet  accomplished,  and  beside  the  "  unformed  Occi- 
dent," with  which  men's  minds  in  Daniel's  time  were  filled,  we  are 
spreading  the  "accents  that  are  otirs "  over  "the  gorgeous  East," 
and  orzT  an  austral  world  of  which  Daniel  never  dreamed.  Who 
shall  limit  the  extent  or  the  sway  of  our  language  ?  ^Vho  also  dares 
talk  of  the  greatness  of  our  (modern)  style,  or  dream  of  foreign 
nations  being  "  refined  "  by  such  accents  as  wc  now  use  ? 

SVLVAKUS   URBAN. 


THE 


GENTLEMAN'S  MAGAZINE. 

September  1901. 


A  WILD  IRISHMAN'S  EXPLOIT. 


Bv  John  K.  Leys. 

MR,  JOSEPH  BELLRINGERwastheeditorandsoleproprictoc 
of  the  Weekly  Mirror  {and  Cn'tu),  a  steady-going,  old- 
fiashiotiedi  weekly  journal.  The  Mirror  had  been  established  nuny 
yean.  It  had  had  a  considerable  reputation  in  its  day,  but  that  day 
was  now  long  past;  lately  il  had  not  been  doing  very  well,  for  it  had 
been  eclipsed  by  younger  and  more  dashing  rivals.  It  did  not 
pursue  any  special  path,  but  meandered  overall  things  in  heaven  and 
earth  in  a  sober  and  somewhat  melancholy  fashion,  from  week  to 
week  and  from  year  to  year. 

Mr.  Bellringer  resembled  his  journal.  He  too  was  steady,  old- 
fiishioned,  stiff,  somewhat  feeble,  and  very  discursive  in  his  talk. 
But  at  the  office  of  the  Mirror,  the  old  man  was  an  autocrat  His 
sub-editor,  Thomas  Larkyns,  was  little  more  than  a  proof-reader, 
except  for  the  fact  that  he  wrote  an  article  and  a  column  of  personal 
paragraphs  for  the  paper  every  week. 

On  one  point  only  had  Mr.  Bellringer  yielded  to  his  subordinate's 
suggestions,  Mr.  Larkyns  had  represented  that  it  was  absolutely 
necessary  to  have  a  column  or  two  of  Personal  paragraphs — "  Personal 
Tit-bits  " — the  sub-editor  wished  to  call  them.  After  much  argument 
the  new  feature  in  the  paper  was  announced  ;  but  Mr.  Bellringer 
with  a  frown  drew  his  heavy  goose-quill  through  the  title  beloved  of 
the  sub-editor,  and  substituted  "  Personal  Notes  and  Anecdotes." 
In  all  other  matters  it  was  the  same.  Nothing  of  an  objectionable 
or  even  a  questionable  tendency  c\'er  appeared  in  the  Mirror,  One 
might  have  thought  that  the  sheet  was  issued  by  the  Religious  Tract 
Sodcty^  so  free  was  it  from  scandal,  periifiagt^  or  frivolous  matter. 
VOL.  ccxci.    Ko.  3049.  (^ 


il 


A 


3IO 


The  Geniiemans  Magazine. 


And  it  may  be  imagined  that  it  was  often  extremely  difficult  Tor  Mr. 
I^arkyns  to  find — as  it  was  his  duty  to  do  every  week— a  supply  of 
*'  personal  "  paragraphs  which  would  suit  the  fastidious  laste  of  Mr. 
Bellringer,  and  would  be,  at  the  same  time^  worth  printing. 

It  was  the  height  of  the  season  ;  London  was  very  full  ;  and  the 
Mirror  was  pursuing  the  even  tenor  of  its  way,  when  Mr.  Bellringer 
was  suddenly  summoned  to  Brussels,  to  see  an  aged  aunt,  from 
whom  he  had  long  expected  a  fat  legacy.  So,  although  it  was 
Thursday  morning  (an  important  day  at  the  office  of  the  Mirror)^ 
he  made  preparations  to  set  out  at  once. 

"  You  must  write  the  leader  yourself  this  week,"  he  said  to  Mr. 
Ijrkyns.  "  Be  moderate  ;  above  all  things  be  judiciously  moderate. 
I  think  the  new  commercial  treaty  with  Denmark  will  be  as  good  a 
subject  as  any.  And  do  take  care  of  your  *  Personal  Notes.'  Don't 
be  too  personal,  I  would  say.  Give  no  one  any  ground  for  complaint. 
I  shall  be  back  by  Monday,  I  expect. — Good-day." 

Friday  rooming  found  Mr.  Thomas  Larkyns  at  the  office^ 
laboriously  constructing  top-heavy  sentences  with  no  meaning  in 
particular,  about  a  commercial  treaty  with  Denmark,  when  the  door 
of  his  sanctum  was  pushed  rudely  open,  and  a  brother  of  the  quill, 
a  jovial  Irishman  named  Dennis  O'tTaherty,  walked  into  the  room. 

"Get  away,  Dennis  ;  I'm  busy,"  said  Larkyns  virtuously. 

*' Where's  the  ouldcock?"  responded  O'Flahert)',  nodding  bis 
head  towards  the  editor's  room. 

"  Gone  to  Brussels." 

"  The  Divil  he  has  !  TTiiti  ye'll  just  come  with  me.  Tommy,  my 
lad.  Lightfoot  and  Marrablc  and  one  or  two  more  of  us  arc  going 
to  make  up  a  party.  We  lunch  at  the  Cock  Pheasant  at  halfpast  two, 
and  go  to  see  Tottie  Howard  in  '  Sly-Bools '  in  the  evening.  To- 
morrow we  all  run  down  to  Marrable's  place  at  Richmond.  His 
better  halfs  away.  We'll  play  whist  or  poker  and  drink  whiskey,  all 
Saturday,  Saturday  night  and  Sunday,  and  come  back  to  town  on 
Monday  morning  mightily  refreshed.     What  say  you,  old  man?" 

"  rd  be  delighted  to  go  with  you,"  said  Larkyns  ruefully;  "  but 
I've  got  this  confounded  article  to  write,  and  a  heap  of  proofs  to 
conect,  and " 

"  Is  that  all  ?  Go  on  grinding  out  the  meal,  and  I'll  lake  a  look 
at  these  little  slips." 

So  saying  Mr.  O'FIaherty  threw  aside  his  hat,  lit  a  cigar,  tilted 
bis  chair  back  on  its  hind  Icg<:,  and  picked  up  a  proof-sheet. 

Long  before  the  article  was  finished,  the  proofs  had  been  disposed 
of ;  and  the  Irishman  left  lus  friend  on  the  underf landing  that  he 


A   Wild  Irishman  s  Exploit. 


211 


would  turn  up  at  tbe  Cock  Pbeasaai  at  half-past  two,  or  as  soon  after 
as  be  could. 

Never  had  an  article  given  Lark)7is  sach  trouble  as  this  one  did. 
The  sentences  would  not  come  right ;  they  would  not  hang  together 
even  decently.  A  thousand  times  the  young  fellow  cursed  his 
employer's  folly  in  tying  him  down  to  a  barren  subject  about  which 
it  was  next  to  impossible  to  say  anything.  But  the  most  tiresome 
tasks  gel  finished  at  last.  The  article  was  at  length  completed  and 
despatched  to  the  printers,  with  instructions  that  the  proofs  were  to 
be  forwarded  to  him  at  the  Cock  Pheasant. 

It  was  past  three  before  Tom  Larkyns  joined  his  friends ;  and 
lunch  (which  was  practically  their  dinner)  was  nearly  over.  How- 
ever, he  ate  and  drank  heartily,  nuking  up  for  lost  time.  After  his 
meal  he  drank  the  best  part  of  a  boUle  of  sherry ;  and  he  had  just 
reached  an  extremely  comfortable  stage  when  a  waiter  brought  in  a 
note  for  him. 

He  lore  open  the  envelope,  glanced  at  the  scrawl  within,  and 
uttered  a  cry  of  dismay. 

"  What's  the  matter?  "  asked  one  of  the  company. 

"  Matter  enough  ! "  cried  the  luckless  journalist,  dropping  his 
head  upon  his  hand.  "  I'm  ruined  \  I've  forgotten  my  column  of 
*  Personal  Notes  I  "*  It  was  true.  The  unmanageable  article  had 
so  filled  his  mind  that  be  had  entirely  forgotten  the  "  Notes." 

"  Wc  started  them  just  a  month  ago,"  said  I.arkyns,  "  and  I  know 
my  chief  will  never  forgive  my  going  to  press  without  them.  Besides, 
I  haven't  anything  ready  to  fill  the  space.  What  shall  1  do  ?  I'm 
in  no  condition  to  write  now." 

"Hold  up  your  head,  Tommy,"  said  O'Flahcrty.  "I'm  the 
soberest  man  present,  /'//write  your  pars.  Get  me  a  dozen  sheets 
of  note-paper  and  a  pen,"  he  added  to  the  waiter. 

Larkyns  grasped  his  friend's  hand  with  the  effusive  gratitude  of  a 
who  has  taken  as  much  wine  as  he  can  conveniently  carry;  and 
O'Flaherty  retired  into  a  corner  with  the  writing  materials. 

In  an  hour  and  a  half  the  task  was  completed  ;  and  O'Flaherty 
carried  his  goodnature  so  far  as  to  go  down  to  the  printers  an  hour 
or  two  later,  and  see  tbe  paper  put  through  the  final  stages  before 
going  to  press.      He  then  joined  the  rest  of  the  party  at  the  theatre. 

The  Richmond  programme  was  carried  out ;  and  on  Monday 
forenoon  I^j-kyns  entered  the  office  of  the  Mirror  a  little  pale,  and 
a  little  shaky,  but  otherwise  none  the  worse  for  his  excursion. 

"  Mr.  Bellrlnger  has  returned,  sir,"  said  one  of  the  clerks  to  bim. 

"Ohl" 


313 


The  Gentlemans  Magazine. 


Tom  pulled  himself  together,  and  entered  the  editor's  room. 
Mr.  BcUringer  wa*-'  sitting  at  his  writing-table,  his  elbows  on  the  table, 
and  his  head  betvrecn  his  hands. 

*'Good-inoming,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Larkyns,  with  a  feeble  smile. 

The  editor  looked  up,  and  the  5ul>cditor's  smile  died  away. 
Mr.  BcUringer  was  glaring  at  him  like  a  wild  beast !  Then  suddenly, 
with  a  half-articulate  cry,  the  old  man  jumped  up  from  his  seat, 
sprang  on  his  sub-editor,  grasped  him  by  the  coat  collar  with  both 
hands,  and  shook  the  unfortunate  journalist  as  hard  as  be  could. 

"  Mr.  Bdlringer !  Sir !  ^Vhy  do  you—?  What— do  you  mean  ?  " 
gasped  l^rkyns,  as  he  swayed  to  and  Uo.  Mr.  Bellringer  had  been  a 
powerful  man  In  bis  youth,  and  was  still  rather  muscular. 

"  Mean  I  "  shouted  the  owner  of  the  Mirror  ;  *'  I  mean  that  you 
have  ruined  me !  At  least  you  have  ruined  my  journal.  Such  infernal 
impudence  1  never  heard  of !  But  you  shall  suffer  for  it  I  Oh,  but  you 
shall  pay  for  it  dearly  \  I  will  encourage  tliesc  people  to  prosecute  you 
— criminal  information,  of  course.  You'U  get  on  an  average,  I  should 
say,  six  months  for  each  offence— say  three  years'  imprisonment. 
That  will  settle  you,  you  villain  !  That  will  teach  you  to  sting  the  bosom 
that  warmed  you,  and  bring  an  old  man's  grey  hairs  with  sorrow " 

"  Look  here,  sir,"  said  Larkyns  6rmly,  "  I'm  verry  sorry  if  any- 
thing's  gone  wrong,  but  really  I  don't  know  what  it  is." 

This  cool  impertinence  (as  it  seemed)  almost  stupefied  Mr, 
Bellringer. 

« Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  he  said,  "  that  you  do  not  knffw 
what  you  have  done  ?  Have  you  no  conscience?  No  sense  of  decency? 
No  brains  left  you?" 

"If  it's  anything  in  the  Mtrrory  I  may  tell  you  I  haven't  seen 
a  copy  of  the  last  issue.  I've  been  in  the  country — for  my  health's 
sake— and  have  just  returned." 

Mr.  Bellringer's  passion  mastered  him  once  more. 

"  Rtad  that  \ "  he  screamed»  thrusting  a  copy  of  bis  journal 
under  hi^  sub-editor's  nose.  "  Read  it,  sir  1  Read  it  aloud  !  *'  And 
Mr.  I-arkyns  read  as  follows : — 

"The  upper  ten  (if  one  may  so  speak)  of  the  ecclesiastical  world 
is  talking  of  nothing  but  the  unfortunate  scrape— to  call  it  by  no 
harsher  name— in  which  the  Bishop  of  one  of  the  northern  dioceses 
has  unfortunately  become  entangled.  It  appears  that  about  a  month 
ago  his  lordship  took  a  railway  journey  from  London  to  his  own 
cathedral  city,  travelling  in  a  smoking  carriage,  for  (as  everybody 
knows)  his  lordship  is  in  private  an  inveterate  lover  of  the  n^ed. 
AVlicn  the  prelate  chose  hia  caxriage  it  had  already  one  occu]>ant— a 


A  Wild  IrUkm4u£s  ExpkU.  2x3 

hdy  well  known  to  the  fteqoenten  of  the  Fimdi^  Theatre  for  her 
»kin  as  a  damsntst.  TlieBisbop'sfriendssay  that  there  «u  no  otbcr 
aeat  m  asoMildogcairiageavailabk;  cioqitonefilled  bjrsoDieaitisans 
of  his  lordship^s  flock  in  a  state  of  semi-intoiifation ;  but  another 
accoont  states  diat  iri»en  tbc  guard  with  some  drflknlty  made  room 
datwhtie,  his  lordahqi^  ^andug  at  tfiechanning  £Keof  the  yomg 
hdj  opposite^  pointedlj  idbaed  to  move  Be  this  as  it  majr,  diere 
can  be  littte  doubt  dsat  the  faisbop  and  the  ^EuuwtrtxaTdkd  togelfacr 
from  ten  A.11. — ^well,  sereol  boms.  It  is  iriiisperad  that  the  joang 
lady  paited  from  his  kvdship  mider  the  finn  impresnon  dsat  die  was 
engaged  to  be  matiied  to  him ;  and  that  the  result  voold  ineritafaly 
have  been  an  action  for  bccadi  of  pitmuse^  had  it  not  been  for  the 
weU4nown  &ct  that  his  lordship  is  a  manied  man— as  nrodi  married, 
in  fiul,  as  was  Bishop  Proodie  himselt  At  present,  the  shot  hangs 
fire  ;  bntas  a  man's  being  married  is  no  legal  bar  to  an  action  of 
this  nature^  we  may  expect  some  day  soon  an  annuing  trial;  unless 
the  fair  actress  consents  to  compromise  her  ciaim.  We  can  anthorita- 
tively  contradict  the  report  that  his  lorddiq>  is  honocary  prdate  to 
the  Chnrdi  and  Stage  Guild.  On  the  contrary,  his  locdsfaq>  has 
always  been  considered  a  strict  Evai^elical." 

"  Horrible !    Infamous !   Atrodons ! "  cried  Mr.  BeUringer. 

Mr.  I^rkyns  groaned,  and  the  paper  fell  from  his  hands.  He 
remembered  only  too  wen.  The  traitor  OTIaberty  had  done  this  thing. 

"  Go  on,  sir !    Go  on  1 "  screamed  Mr.  Bdlringer. 

Mr.  Larkyns  went  on,  and  found  that  two  columns  were  filled 
with  paragr^hs  of  this  description.  In  many  cases  hints  were  given 
as  to  the  identity  of  die  persons  lampooned,  faints  which  might  apply 
equally  weD  to  any  one  of  half  a  dozen  pcop^  "  A  maiden  lady  of 
uncertain  age,  and  yet  more  uncertain  temper,"  but  related  to  one 
of  the  oldest  families  in  England,  had  clandestinely  married  her 
youngest  footman.  The  sale  of  Dunderton  Castle,  "which  our 
readers  will  find  advertised  in  all  the  leading  dailies,"  had  become 
necessary,  owing  to  the  frightful  losses  which  his  Grace  had  sustained 
at  baccarat     And  so  on. 

**  Wdl,  sir,  what  have  you  to  say  to  all  this  ?  "  cried  Mr,  Belltinger, 
in  a  voice  that  was  hoarse  with  rage.  "  I  have  had  visits  from 
several  indignant  gentlemen,  each  supposing  himself  to  be  the 
brother  of  the  lady  who  had  married  her  footman.  As  for  the  story 
about  the  Bishop,  it*s  simply  blasphemous — shockii^  Then,  the 
Duke  of  Dunderton " 

"  But— but  there  isnt  any  Duke  of  Dunderton ! "  ejacuhued  Mr. 
LarkynsL 


214 


The  Gentleman  s  Magazine, 


"  It  doesn't  matter,"  said  Mr.  Bellringer  severely,  "  the  names 
may  be  fictitious,  but  the  persons  are  real^enough,  or  at  any  rale  the 
slanders  are — these  gross^  false,  wicked  calumnies  are  real.  Can 
you  deny  that^  sir?  " 

There  was  no  answering  arguments  Uke  this,  and  the  unlucky 
sub-editor  began  to  explain  that  under  the  stress  of  work  he  had 
left  it  to  a  friend  on  the  press  to  write  the  paragraphs ;  but  the 
proprietor  of  the  Mirror  would  not  listen  to  him. 

"  It  doesn't  matter,  sir,  whether  it  was  by  utter  n^lcct  of  your 
duties  or  by  wilful  malice  that  you  allowed  such  abominable  false- 
hood.<; — or  childish  nonsense — to  appear  in  my  journal,"  said  Nf  r, 
Bellringer,  in  a  lofty  yet  angry  tone.  "  Meantime  the  least  you  can 
do  is  to  sign  this  Retractation  and  Apolog)*."  So  saying  the  old  man 
placed  before  the  delinquent  the  draft  of  an  apology  so  humble  in 
its  tone  that  Larkyns's  cheeks  flushed  as  he  read  it.  Still,  he  reflected, 
some  explanation  was  due,  and  he  was  not  in  a  position  to  stand 
upon  trifles.     He  seized  a  pen  and  signed  the  sheet. 

"  Now  you  can  go,  and  I  hope  never  to  see  you  again,"  said 
Mr.  Bellringer  with  a  grim  smile,  as  he  locked  the  Apology  up  in 
his  drawer. 

">Vbat,  sir?    Am  I  dismissed?"  cried  poor  Larkyns, 

*'  Dismissed  ?    Certainly.     What  else  did  you  expect,  pray  ?  " 

The  young  man's  heart  seemed  to  leap  into  his  mouth.  He 
turned  on  his  heel  without  a  word,  and  walked  out  into  the  street, 
the  pitiless  London  streets,  which  seem  to  the  unfortunate  colder 
and  harder  than  any  other  streets  in  the  world. 

All  that  day  he  spent  in  trying  to  find  another  situation— unsuccess- 
fully. On  Tuesday  he  fell  in  with  O'Flaherty,  who  received  Larkyns's 
story  with  shouts  of  untrammelled  laughter,  till  the  melancholy  end 
was  reached.  The  Irishman  was  sincerely  sorry,  which  did  not  do 
the  unhappy  man  much  good. 

On  Thursday  I.Arkyns  remembered  that  the  Mirrcr  owed  him  a 
little  money,  and  he  thought  he  had  Iwtter  call  and  see  the  cashier. 
He  did  so,  and  learned  to  his  surprise  that  Mr.  Bellringer  had  not 
been  at  the  office  since  Monday.  A  little  further  inquiry  made  him 
aware  that  the  unfortunate  journalist,  tormented  by  threats  of  actions 
for  damages  and  criminal  prosecutions,  and  wincing  under  the 
sarcasms  of  his  S)*nipathising  friends,  had  immured  himself  in  his 
house  at  Bayswater,  abandoning  himself  to  the  gloomiest  fore- 
bodings. As  for  the  Mirror^  Mr.  Bellringer  had  apparently  left  it  to 
take  care  of  itself.  Except  tlie  abject  Apology  which  Larkyna  had 
signed  under  the  impression  that  it  would  be  accepted  as  an  atone- 


A  JTild  /rzsJkmam's  Ej^£mI.  213 


ment  far  his  Bnk,  tfaezc  VZ5  Doctxg  3x  trpc  kx  t=e  aex2  issae.  b 
looked  fts  if  OTUmty^  ntdssed  jett  mnUpKove  tbe  dsxfa^ilov 
of  the  poor  old  Mimr. 

When  L«ifcFi>s  had  ascntaoied  in  tfai^  be  west  to  a  taiartt«here 
he  knew  he  sfaould  prafaaUrCnd  OHHihalT  and  conSded  10  Uaa 
tike  &ct  of  die  iiiMiihrrt  decease  of  the  J&nr.  ■■  And  in  bt^ 
DenniSk  nn'not  90R7*  he  added,  "far  dae  lindiuiie  oU  as^  Bdl- 
TiDgcr,  has  the  Apofegj- he  vTUss  from  me  in  trpe,  readf  far  insertioi^ 
with  my  name  in  feoen  half  an  indi  kng  at  die  fcoL  I  should 
neier  be  ahle  to  hold  np  my  head  i^in  if  that  thing  vere 
pobBsbed." 

The  Iridinian  went  on  sipping  his  brandj  and  water  for  some 
little  time  in  silence :  then  suddenly  he  started  up^  and  absohi^j 
focgettiz^  to  empty  his  glass  called  oa^  **  Wait  for  me  here !  *  to  his 
friend,  and  homed  from  the  room. 

An  hour — two  hoars— passed,  aod  OTIaherty  returned,  evidently 
in  a  state  of  great  excitement 

"  I've  done  it.  Tommy,"  said  he. 

"Done  what?* 

"IVe  bought  the  Mirror  V 

"  But — but  yCMi've  got  no  money  to  pay  for  it." 

"It  doesn't  matter.  Ill  keep  it  going;  that's  the  main  thing.  I 
made  the  old  man  take  bills ;  and  if  I  can't  meet  them  out  of  the 
profits  di  the  paper  I'm  no  worse  off  than  I  was  before.  Will  you 
have  a  half  share  with  me  ?  " 

"On  these  terms — that  I  take  profits,  and  can't  pay  losses? — 
certainly  !  "  said  Larkyns,  staring  at  his  friend. 

"I  consider  you're  entitled  to  that,"  said  the  Irishman;  "but 
come  along,  my  boy.  You  and  I  have  to  write  a  whole  number  of 
the  Mirror  before  this  time  to-morrow ;  so  there's  no  rest  for  you  or 
me  this  night" 

When  Mr.  Bellringer  opened  his  copy  of  the  Mirror  on  Saturday 
rooming  expecting  to  find  in  it  the  Apology  (a  masterpiece,  he 
flattered  himself,  in  that  species  of  literature),  he  found  instead  the 
following  Editorial,  which  proceeded,  it  is  needless  to  say,  from  the 
iiadle  pen  of  Mr.  D.  O'Flaherty  :— 

"  To  our  great  surprise  and  intense  amusement,  we  find  that  the 
column  of  *  Personal  Notes '  in  our  last  issue,  which  we  intended  as 
a  piece  of  harmless  fun,  has  been  taken  seriously  by  some  worthy 
pec^Ie.  It  may  sound  incredible,  but  such  is  the  fact  Enraged 
fathers  and  furious  brothers  have  called  and  threatened  us  with 
sudden  and  unprovided  death  because  we  said  an  old  lady  had 


Tk$  GentUniafi s  Magasine^ 

r  footman  !    She  can't  liave  had  €tH  those  fathers  and 
From  every  diocese  in  the  province  of  York  old  ladies 
female)  have  undertaken  a  journey  to  London  on  purpose 
us,  and  ask  us  to  tell  them  in  the  strictest  confidence  if  It 
[ear  bishop  who  travelled  with  the  actress.    Nay  more,  we 
il  letters  from  the  wives  of  bishops'  chaplains,  offering  to 
2  our  veracious  anecdote  by  evidence  of  similar  incidents 
>f  to  themselves.     Alas,  for  poor  human  nature  1 " 
Flaherty  followed  this  up  with  a  series  of  paragraphs  more 
more  amusing  than  the  former  ones,  as  well  as  a  couple 
to  correspond.    The  old  subscribers  to  the  paper  were 
but  the  paper  sold,  and  succeeded  better  than  it  had  ever 
le  reign  of  Mr.  Bellringer.    O'Haheny  and  his  friend 
exceedingly  \  and  they  are  flourishing  still. 

"HE  NOVELS  OF  PEREZ  GALDOS. 


B£FOR£  the  beginning  of  the  present  year  few  persons  outside 
of  Spain  had  ever  heard  of  Benito  PtSrcz  Galdds.  One  of 
his  novels,  "  Dona  Perfecta,"  had,  it  is  true,  been  translated  into 
several  European  languages,  but  the  translations  had  made  little 
stir  even  in  literary  circles.  Suddenly,  however,  in  the  5rst  quarter 
of  1 90 1  there  appeared  at  Madrid  a  play  called  "Electra,"  which 
obtained  a  success  such  as  few  dramas  have  ever  liad  in  Spain,  and 
which  has  gained  for  P^rez  GaldtSs  a  European  reputation.  Not, 
indeed,  on  account  of  the  literary  merit  of  the  piece,  for  if  "  Electra  " 
had  been  performed  in  Paris  or  London  it  would  probably  have 
been  pronounced  mediocre  and  uninteresting.  But  it  so  chanced 
that  the  first  representation  of  the  play  coincided  with  the  most 
violent  outburst  of  anti  clericalism  which  Spain  has  known  since 
the  days  of  the  Liberal  Minister,  Mendizabal,  in  1836.  The  public, 
embittered  against  the  friars  by  the  privileges  enjoyed  in  respect  of 
taxation  by  those  semi-religious  bodies,  was  raised  to  fury  by  the 
revelations  of  the  Ubao  case — an  action  brought  by  the  guardians 
of  a  rich  young  lady  to  obtain  her  Release  from  a  convent,  in  which 
she  had  been  incarcerated  against  their  wishes  but  with  her  own 
consent  At  this  juncture— when  the  excitement  had  reached 
a  pitch  that  the  particular  convent  in  question  was  in  danger  of  being 
burned  to  the  ground  by  the  mob,  and  monks  and  nuns  found  it 
wiser  all  over  the  country  to  keep  out  of  the  way—  P^rez  Gald*5s 
produced  his  drama,  a  work  full  of  allusions  to  clerical  tyranny. 
Never  has  author  known  better  how  to  seize  the  psychological 
moment  "  Electra  "  has  proved  to  be  a  perfect  example  of  Mr. 
Kipling's  theory  that  "  it  does  not  matter  what  you  write,  provided 
you  know  when  to  write  it"  At  once  the  Liberal  Press  throughout 
Spain  hailed  the  play  as  a  new  programme  for  the  anti-clerical  party. 
The  bishops,  by  forbidding  the  faithful  to  attend  any  representations 
of  the  "  immoral "  piece,  naturally  gave  it  a  tremendous  advertisement, 
2nd  all  Spain,  from  San  Sebastidn  to  Algeciras,  flocked  to  the  theatre 
whenever  "  Electra  "  was  advertised    So  great  was  the  alarm  o(  the 


2l8 


Th$  Gentleman's  Mc^aztne, 


clergy  that  in  clerical  Seville  they  laboured,  with  success,  to  secure 
the  boycott  of  the  drama  in  the  local  Press.  But  elsewhere  their 
eHTorts  failed.  Even  the  rival  charms  of  the  bull-fight  paled  before  the 
delights  of  applauding  the  anti-clerical  hits  in  the  play,  and  of  shout- 
ing "  iMrnran  los  fraila  I  "  ("  Death  to  the  friars  ! ")  and  "  /  l^wa  la 
Liberdad/"  The  sixtieth  performance,  which  took  place  when  the 
present  writer  was  in  Madrid,  was  a  perfect  triumph  for  the  author, 
who  further  increased  his  popularity  by  handing  over  the  proceeds 
to  the  poor  of  the  capital.  No  nation  reads  less  than  the  Spaniards, 
-who  appear  to  consider  a  love  of  books  as  a  sign  of  a  \'acant  mind. 
Yet  "  Electra  "  has  reached  the — for  Spain— unprecedented  sale  of 
20,000  copies,  and  it  is  usually  the  only  book  that  can  be  purchased 
at  the  one  bookseller's  shop  of  a  small  Spanish  town.  Meanwhile 
the  name  and  fame  of  the  dramatist  spread  abroad.  He  had  hcconw 
at  a  bound  the  most  prominent  man  in  Spain  ;  he  had  quite  thrown 
the  Sagastas  and  the  Silvelas  of  politics  into  the  shade ;  he  had  even 
striven  successfully  with  Cerrajillas,  the  noted  bull-fighter,  in  the 
race  for  notoriety,  and  reports  of  "  Electra  "  threatened  to  crowd  out 
the  daily  bulletins  of  that  wounded  gladiator's  health  from  the 
columns  of  the  Madrid  papers.  As  public  men  in  Spain  usually 
decline  to  lead  public  opinion,  Vittz  Gald(5s  became  in  himself  a 
leader,  and  the  most  widely  read  Austrian  paper  published  a  long 
article  from  his  pen  on  "  Spain  of  To-day,"  which  was  repro- 
duced all  over  the  Peninsula.  From  Portugal,  where  there  is  an 
anti-clerical  movement  simitar  to  that  in  Spain,  came  eager  applica- 
tions from  rival  managers  for  the  dramatic  rights  of  the  notorious 
drama.  An  impetus  was  also  given  to  the  sale  of  the  author's  previous 
works  in  Spain,  and  the  volumes  of  his  "  Episodios  Nacionales," 
bound  in  the  red  and  yellow  of  the  national  colours,  enlivened  the 
windows  of  the  Puerta  del  Sol.  By  yet  another  stroke  of  luck  the 
publication  of  the  last  volume  of  that  series  of  historical  novelf^ 
**  Bodas  Rcales  "  ("  Royal  Marriages  "),  happened  to  coincide  with 
the  very  unpopular  royal  marriage  of  the  Princess  of  Asturias,  the 
young  King's  sister  and  possible  successor.  P^re2  Oald6s's  novel  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  Princess  and  her  husband,  but  took  its  title 
from  those  **Spanii>h  marriages"  which,  in  1846,  led  to  so  mucli 
unpleasantness  between  Oreat  Britain  and  France.  The  name  was, 
however,  quite  enough  for  the  enterprising  publisher,  and  the  reputa- 
tion of  the  novelist  as  the  interpreter  of  what  Liberal  Spain  was 
thinking  received  further  confirmation.  To-day  it  is  not  too  much 
to  say  that  Perez  (>ald(5s  is  the  one  Uving  Spanish  writer  whose 
name  has  any  significance  north  of  the  Pyrenees,  and  tlw  one  author 


Tfu  Novels  of  Ptfnz  Califs, 


319 


who  wtdds  infiuence  soutb  of  that  range  of  mountains  at  which,  it 
■vnts  once  sarcastically  said,  "Africa  begins." 

To  those  who  desire  to  gain  some  acquaintance  with  the  romantic 
episodes  which  made  up  so  much  of  Spanish  life  in  the  first  half  of 
the  last  century,  no  better  guide  can  be  recommended  than  this 

>  popular  novelist  and  dramatist.  For  a  number  of  years  Ptfrez  (jaldds 
concentrated  all  bis  efforts  on  the  production  of  a  great  prose  epic 
which  should  do  for  modern  Spain  what  Zola's  "  Rougon-Macquart  '* 
series  of  novels  did  for  modem  France,  and  what  the  late  Gustav 
Krcytag  in  his  "  Ahiien  '*  did  for  Germany  across  the  ages.  The  thirty 
volumes  of  the  "  Eptsodios  Nacionales"cover  thcwhole  field  of  Spanish 
affairs  from  the  battle  of  Trafalgar,  which  gives  its  name  to  the  first 
of  the  scries,  down  to  the  Royal  Marriages,  which  furnish  a  title  to 
the  last.  During  those  forty-one  years  Spain  was  almost  constantly 
the  theatre  of  grtat  historic  events  which  attracted  the  attention  of 
the  whole  world,  and  in  which  Englishmen  played  an  important  part 
The  Peninsular  War,  the  Restoration  of  the  Bourbons,  the  march 
of  the  French  through  the  country  under  the  Due  d'Angoulfimc,  the 
wretched  reign  of  Fernando  VII.  with  the  "Apostolical"  rising,  the 
intrigues  round  the  sick-bed  of  the  miserable  despot,  the  proclamation 
of  Isabel  II.,  the  first  Carlist  War,  and  the  subsequent  disturbances 
of  the  military  chiefs— all  these  form  the  background  to  the  pictures 
of  Spanish  life  which  the  novelist  has  drawn  in  this  his  longest  and 
most  interesting  work.  All  the  leading  men  and  women  of  the 
period  are  presented  to  us  as  living  personages  of  the  narrative,  with 
all  their  virtues  and  defects  [xirtrayed  at  times  in  almost  Tacitean 
colours.     We  have  the  Queen-Regent  of  those  days,  the  lovely 

j  Neapolitan,  Maria  Cristina,  of  whom  a  Carlist  said  to  the  dejected 
etender,  "  c\'crything  would  have  been  otherwise  if  your  Majesty's 
itigust  sister-in-law  had  been  born  with  a  squint," '  and  whose  "  beauty 
the  political  support  to  wliich  both  Liberty  and  the  Monarchy 
d  their  principal  successes." '  We  are  told  how  she  captivated 
all  hearts  wlien  she  entered  Madrid  as  a  blushing  bride  in  the  winter 

L of  1829,  and  how  poets  exhausted  their  vocabulary  of  complimentary 

Pcpilbets  in  their  desire  to  do  her  honour.     In  another  novel  we  liave 
a  description  of  her  abdication  and  departure  from  Valencia  in 

tJ84o.  Wu  are  shown  the  marked  contrast  between  Don  Carlos 
nd  his  greatest  general,  the  ill-fated  Zuraalacarregui,  '*  the  former 
the  living  personification  of  absolutism,  the  latter  the  pcrsonifica- 
tioD  of  the  formidable  national  force  which  loved  and  defended  it.** ' 

•  iimJisJM,  p.  165.  *  Ihid,  pw  163. 


220 


Tiu  Gentleman* s  Magazine, 


In  one  volume  after  another  we  see  the  self-styled  Carlos  V., 
naiTOw  and  obstinate,  beloved  by  his  friends,  yet  devoid  of  every 
particle  of  statesmanship,  keeping  up  a  miserable  and  distracted 
Court,  now  at  Ofiate,  now  at  some  wretched  mountain  hamlet 
where  a  dish  of  beans  was  regarded  as  a  luxury  for  the  royal 
table,  but  always  and  everywhere  the  victim  of  monks  and  friars, 
and  solemnly  proclaiming  the  Virgin  as  the  Generalhimn  of  his 
armies.  No  writer  has  studied  Carlism  more  carefully  than  P^rez 
Galdds,  and,  opposed  to  it  as  he  is  from  conviction,  he  yet  does 
justice  to  the  sterling  qualities  of  the  rank  and  fiJc  on  both  sides. 
He  makes  a  Sicilian  diplomatist  say  of  the  Pretender's  Court  at 
Ofiate :  "  My  friend,  here  everything  you  see  is  false,  and  in  this 
diminutive  capital  you  will  find  no  more  truth  than  in  the  big  one 
at  Madrid ;  false  is  the  piety  of  most  of  these  courtiers  ;  hypocritical 
is  their  belief  in  the  divine  right  of  this  poorcomedy-king ;  deceptive 
is  the  enthusiasm  of  those  who  loaf  about  in  the  army  and  in  the 
public  offices."  Yet  the  same  cynical  observer  is  made  to  continue : 
"The  one  element  of  truth  is  the  ptoph  in  its  ignorance  and  its 
innocence  ;  that  is  why  it  is  the  donkey  which  bears  all  the  burdens. 
//  does  everything :  it  fights,  it  pays  the  costs  of  the  campaign,  it 
dies,  it  rots  away  in  misery,  so  lliat  these  phantoms  may  live  and 
glut  their  greed  of  place  and  pelf."  *  And  in  the  same  novel  the 
author  expresses  the  same  contrast  in  his  own  words  :  "The  story 
of  the  '  Apostolical  *  and  Royalist  campaigns  and  that  of  the  mutual 
extermination  of  Spaniards  during  the  dynastic  war  down  to  the 
Convention  of  Vergara  cause  grief  and  horror,  because  of  the  vast 
scale  on  which  lives  were  sacrificed,  and  the  pettiness  of  the  persons 
in  whose  names  the  most  flourishing  part  of  the  nation  died  or 
allowed  itself  to  be  butchered."  '  Yet,  as  one  of  the  charaaers  in  a 
later  volume  confesses,  "Spain  is  an  Invalid  which  can  only  live  by 
being  bled  " ;  and,  again,  "  TTje  Spaniard  is  a  born  fighter,  and  when 
he  cannot  have  a  natural  war  he  invents  one."  * 

The  military  leaders  on  either  side  come  off  better  than  the  titular 
heads  of  the  contending  factions.  The  two  men  whom  Gald6s  roost 
toves  to  honour  are  Zumalacarregui  the  Carlist  and  Espartero  the 
champion  of  the  "angelic"  Isabel.  Honesty  and  simplicity  are 
typified  in  the  doughty  guerilla  chief  who  is  sent  by  the  intriguers  of 
the  Carlist  headquarters,  against  his  own  wishes,  to  besiege  Bilbao, 
then  as  now  the  great  Liberal  stronghold  in  ilie  North.  Few  scenes 
in  this  whole  epic  of  civil  wAt  are  more  pathetic  than  that  in  which 

'  Da  OUttti  i  la  Gnmf*y  p,  l8$.  *  /^^  m^r- 

'  ^«n/<T  it  OtWt  pfk.  JS,  63. 


The  Novels  of  PArz  Ga!d6s.  221 


the  wounded  Carlist  is  tmken  to  die  in  his  simple  %-ilUgc  home.    "  He 

was,"  such  is  the  author's  epitaph  upon  htm  and  at  the  siune  lime 

upon  his  party,  "  the  soul  and  the  arm  of  the  Absolute  Monarchy, 

and  the  Carlist  cause  died  with  him.     Although  its  ghost  has  not 

e^-cn  }et  been  Isud  to  rcst^  Carlism  was  buried  with  the  bones  of 

Zunuiacarregui  beneath  the  fligs  of  the  pamh  church  of  Ccgama."  * 

On  the  other  side,  Espartero,  hero  of  the  bridge  of  Luchaju,  R:lie\'cr 

of  Bilbao  and  Duke  of  Victory,  who  wound  up  the  first  Carlist  War 

by  the  pact  of  Vergara  with   the   more  moderate  section  of  hia 

opponents  under  Maroto,  comes  in  for  unstinted  praise.     He  is  held 

up  OS  a  colossal  figure,  such  as  Spain  no  longer  produces,  and  his 

ambition   is  forgiven   because  of  his  firmness  of  cliaracter.     For 

GaldiSs,  Liberal  though  he  be,  is  under  no  illusions.  *'  In  our  country 

of  chick-peas  and  military  risings,"  he  writes,  "the  successful  soldier 

is  ihc  only  possible  saviour,"  '     *'  Ever)'  Spaniard,'*  says  one  of  the 

characters  in"Los  Aposidlicos,""when  bedemandii  Liberty,  means  bia 

own,  caring  little  about  that  of  his  neighbour.      Des{>otism  beati  in 

every  Spanish  heart  and  runs  in  all  Spanish  veins.     1 1  is  our  second 

nature,  it  is  the  leprous  inheritance  of  past  centuries,  and  will  only  lie 

cured  by  the  bpse  of  centuries  to  come."'     Hence  the  author's 

manifest  liking  for  such  another  strong  man  as  the  Carlist  leader, 

Cabrera,  nicknamed  *'  the  leopard,"  whose  bloody  reprisals  for  the 

savage  murder  of  his  mother  by  the  other  side  are  described  in 

"  La  Campafta  del  Maestrazgo."  Yet  the  folly  and  futility  of  aU  iheae 

operations  and  all  this  bloodshed  are  never  concealed.     "  Why  arc 

we  fighting?"  asks  one  of  the  people  in  this  last-named  novel.     '*If 

I  examine  the  question  thoroughly,  I  find  no  reason  for  this  butchery. 

Liberty,  forsooth  !     Religion  !     The  rights  of  the  Queen,  or  those  of 

Don  Carlos  1     When  I  set  to  work  to  philosophise  on  this  war,  X 

can*t  help  bursting  out  laughing ;  and,  laughing  and  thinking,  1  end 

l^  convincing  myself  that  we  are  all   mad.     Do  you  think  that 

Cabrera  cares  one  jot  for  the  rights  of  his  male  Majesty  ?  or  that 

tboae  on  the  other  side  care  one  jot  for  the  rights  of  her  female 

Blajesty?    I  believe  that  they  arc  both  striving  for  domination  and 

offke,  and  for  nothing  more."  •  And  elsewhere,  in  "  Lo«  ApotuUkot," 

GaId(Ss  reads  his  countr>-men  a  severe  lesson  on  the  results  of  this 

insensate  struggle  between  rival  parties  in  the  field.     "  The  outline 

of  our  country,"  be  writes,  **  does  not  reicmbte  a  geognphical  mapv 

but  the  strategic  plan  of  an  endless  battle.    Oor  people  ia  not  a 

people,  but  an  anoy.    Our  Government  doef  not  govern,  U  dofondi 


222 


The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 


itself.  Our  parties  are  not  parties  as  long  as  tbey  have  no  generals. 
Our  mountains  are  trenches,  and  that  is  why  they  have  been  wii^dy 
stripped  of  trees.  Our  plains  are  left  uncultivated,  in  order  that 
artillery  may  career  over  them.  Our  commerce  exhibits  a  traditional 
nervousness,  caused  by  the  fixed  idea  that  to  tnorrffW  there  vrill  be  a 
row.  .  .  .  Peace  is  here  merely  a  preparation  for  the  next  struggle,  a 
brief  breathing-space,  in  which  men  dress  their  wounds  and  clean 
their  weapons  in  readiness  to  begin  again."  *  No  words  could  better 
express  the  modern  history  of  Spain, 

While  he  reserves  his  warmest  admiration  for  the  generals,  Galdds 
is  not  unkind  to  the  politicians  pure  and  simple — if  purity  and  sim- 
plicity can  be  predicated  of  any  politicians.  For  Mcndizdbal,  the 
famous  Liberal  Minister,  who  honestly  tried  to  rid  Spain  of  the 
incubus  which  slill  impedes  her  progress— the  friars  and  the  nuns — 
he  has  a  profound  liking.  The  strange  career  of  this  able  man  is  of 
special  interest  at  the  prt-scnl  moment,  when  Spain  is  confronted  by 
exactly  the  same  problem  which  he  tried  in  vain  to  solve  in  1836. 
Galdds  devotes  a  whole  novel  to  the  statesman  whom  the  Spaniards 
summoned  in  their  despair  from  his  counting-house  in  London  to 
save  the  State,  and  who  relied  more  on  Villicrs,  the  British  Ambas- 
sador, than  on  his  own  followers.  He  shows  us  at  once  the  strength 
and  the  weakness  of  the  popular  idol  of  that  day — his  unSpanisht 
English  style  of  speaking ;  his  great  knowledge  of  affairs  and  his  small 
knowledge  of  the  classics;  his  vast  plans  of  reform  and  his  petty  vanities 
of  dress;  his  gigantic  stature,  which  earned  him  the  nickname  of 
"Don  John-and-a-half " ;  and  his  small  feet,  of  which  he  was 
extremely  proud.  His  rapid  rise  and  still  more  rapid  fall  arc  depicted, 
and  the  scene  in  which  the  fallen  Minister  quits  his  post  is  one  of 
singular  dignity.  Palace  intrigue,  and  the  lack  of  that"  glorious  Par- 
liamentary oratory  which  is  in  Spain  and  in  the  Spanish  genius  a  sort 
of  combative  poetry,"  caused  his  failure.'  Besides,  the  Spaniards 
love  "  to  throw  stones  at  the  idol  which  they  bavt-  set  up."  *  Galdds 
evidently  believes  that  what  Spain  wants  is  a  new  Mendi^ibal  who 
would  secularise  the  monasteries  and  abolish  the  friars.  Yet  he 
is  not,  as  he  has  been  described  by  his  enemies,  an  advocate  of  vio- 
lence, even  towards  the  religious  orders.  Some  time  ago  a  rabid 
Spanish  paper  published  a  cartoon  reminding  the  Madrid  populace 
how  its  forbears  had  set  fire  to  the  convents  and  massacred  ihdr 
inmates  on  the  fatal  i6th  of  July,  1S34.  But  Gald(5s,  in  his  graphic 
account  of  that  event,  is  all  on  the  side  of  humanity  and  the  friars. 

'  Xm  JjutiliMtt  p.  63.  *  /fu/,  p.  57. 

■  Menttt  di  Oat^  p.  4^ 


The  Ncfveh  of  P/res  GaldSs, 


225 


He  tells  us  how  the  alann  of  Asiatic  cholera,  then  an  unknowtk 
disease,  fell  upon  the  ignorant  mob ;  how  some  playful  children  were 
seen  throwing  a  few  handfuls  of  soil  into  the  water-butts,  and  how 
this  simple  act  was  skilfully  combined  by  a  reckless  anti<lerical 
^tator  with  the  equally  inoffensive  action  of  a  friar  who  had  im- 
fted  a  load  of  sacred  eanh  from  a  shrine  at  Manresa,  and  was  so 

^distorted  as  to  appear  a  delilx:ratc  attempt  on  the  part  of  the  religious 
orders  to  poison  the  people.  At  once  the  logic  of  the  agitator  went 
home  to  the  excited  brains  of  the  distracted  and  tcrri6ed  madrikHos^ 
and  the  guiltless  friars  were  butchered  in  cold  blood,  dying  like  heroes 
on  their  knees  before  the  altars.'  Only  a  few  weeks  ago  Galdds 
most  emphatically  protested  that  he  was  no  foe  to  religion  and  the 
Church,  and  he  is  too  humane  a  man  to  treat  even  those  whom  he 
considers  to  be  the  worst  foes  of  his  country  with  unfairness. 

The  "  Episodios  Nacionalcs  "  might  be  read  with  interest  for  the 
historical  scenes  alone,  such  as  the  famous  intrigue  round  the  sick- 

[bcd  of  Fernando  VII.,  when  Doiia  Carlota,  the  Queen-Regent's 
ster,  gave  the  historic  box  on  the  cars  to  the  base  and  grovelling 
Minister,  Calomarde,  who  meekly  replied,  "White  hands  offend 
not"  ;  or  such  as  the  comical  interview  between  Maria  Cristina  and 
the  revolutionary  sergeants  at  La  Granja ;  or  the  refusal  of  the 
Basque  soldiers  to  fight  any  more  for  Don  Carlos  after  six  long  years 

"of  combat.'    Very  touching,  too,  are  the  betrayal  and  execution  of 
the  chivalrous  Montcs  de  Oca,  the  paladin  of  Maria  Cristina,  who 
her  banner  against  Espartcro's  Regency,  and  who,  though  a 

^dreamer,  is  one  of  the  purest  figures  in  all  this  gallery  of  portraits, 
"  the  living  personification  of  the  poetry  of  politics."  '  But  in  each 
novel  there  is  a  more  or  less  complete  scene  of  private  life,  as 
aflected  by  the  public  events  of  the  time.  In  this  respect,  how- 
ever, the  '*  Episodios  Nacionales "  suffer  from  a  defect  common 
to  all  long  series  of  stories,  and  indeed  inevitable  in  that  class 
of  composition.  The  same  characters  reappear  in  successive 
volumes,  often  without  the  slightest  explanation,  and  thus  the 
reader,  who  has  neither  time  nor  patience  to  wade  through  all 
the  previous  books  of  the  series,  finds  himself  suddenly  plunged 
into  the  middle  of  things  with  no  clue  to  guide  him.  Vet  the 
characters  are  all  types,  and  intended  to  be  regarded  as  such.  There 
is  the  type  of  the  young  and  ardent  *'  Royalist  volunteer,"  who  quits, 
his  quiet  work  as  sacristan  of  a  convent  at  Solsona  for  the  excite- 
ments of  warfare,  of  which,  like  Don  Quixote,  he  has  read  much  in 

'   Un  fatiioia  mit  y  aignnci  fraiUt  mtnei.  '   V$rgara, 

*  M<mt4s  dt  Oe^  p.  S47. 


Tki  GentUntans  Magazine, 


books,  but  which  he  soon  finds  to  be  not  all  heroism.  There  is  ihe 
nun  with  whom  he  has  fallen  violently  in  love,  but  who  calmly  sends 
him  to  the  scaffold  in  place  of  a  Liberal  agent  who  possesses  her 
affections,  and  who  has  been  captured  and  condemned  to  death  by 
the  •'  Apostolical "  party.*  There  is  the  military  priest,  who  goes  in 
quest  of  buried  cannon  for  the  Carlists,  shares  their  miserable  head- 
quarters, consoling  himself  with  the  reflection  that  "there  is  no 
mattress  like  Faith,"  *  and  is  then  captured  and  converted  by  the 
Cristinos,  being  now  confident  that  one  side  is  no  better  and  no 
worse  than  the  other.  There  is  the  young  man  of  doubtful  parent- 
age but  enormous  inBuence  who  chases  the  lovely  ward  of  a 
diamond  merchant  all  over  Spain,  and  goes  on  missions  to  the 
Carlists  at  one  moment  and  escorts  helpless  damsels  through  the 
hostile  lines  at  another.  There  is  the  cleric  whose  one  idea  is  bull- 
fighting, who  discusses  politics  in  the  jargon  of  the  bull  ring,  and 
thinks  it  quite  becoming  to  one  of  his  sacred  profession  to  go  to  a 
corrida  de  toros^  yet  refuses  tickets  for  the  performance  of  a  hannless 
play.  And  there  is  the  ruined  old  aristocrat  of  proud  Aragdn, 
whose  life  is  one  long  struggle  to  wring  money  out  of  his  careful  and 
penurious  grandson  in  order  that  he  may  continue  to  live  as  an 
extravagant  grandee,  going  about  the  country  with  his  reminiscences 
of  Napoleon  and  his  rather  risky  anecdotes  of  Parisian  society  as  he 
had  known  it  before  that  great  man  had  revolutionised  everything. 
Side  by  side  with  this  representative  of  the  old  school  we  have 
portraits  of  typical  members  of  the  middle  class,  "  that  formidable 
class  which  to-day  is  the  universal  power  which  does  and  undoes 
everything,  which  is  nowada}*s  omnipotent  in  politics  and  the 
magistracy,  in  administration,  in  science,  and  in  the  army,  .and  which 
first  saw  the  light  at  Cidiz  amidst  the  roar  of  French  bombs  and  the 
perorations  of  a  hybrid  Congress."'  It  is  this  middle  class  which, 
as  the  author  show;;,  has  elbowed  its  way  between  frtars  and  nobles 
and  "  created  a  new  Spain."  But  Gald(5s  more  than  once  expresses 
the  opinion  that  the  best  hopes  for  the  future  of  his  country  are  to 
be  found,  not  so  much  in  any  one  class  or  in  any  particular  set  of 
institutions  as  in  the  national  character,  that  "tenacity,  lliat 
chivalrous  courage,  which  make  up  the  whole  history  of  a  race, 
which,  e^'en  when  it  is  falling  to  the  ground,  thinks  how  it  is  to  raise 
itself  again,"  that  "tenacious  Celtiberian  constancy"  which  has 
enabled  the  Spaniards  to  survive  so  many  disasters.* 

One  of  the  most  interesting  features  for  British  readers  of  these 

■  Zmmiacarr^^uiy  p.  196^  ■  ZMmalae«rrt^i,  |t]x  150,  S4-$5* 


t 


* 


>6tf  Novels  of  Ptfrez  Galdds. 


novels  is  the  kindly  feeling  which  they   display  for  our  national 
character  and  customs.    We  are  apt  to  6nd  pictures  of  ourselves 
the  reverse  of  flattering  in  most  foreign  novels  at  the  present  day ; 
but  in  the  pages  of  Galdos  it  is  not  so.     The  British  envoys  who 
come  to  prevent  the  brutal  system  of  shooting  all  prisoners  during 
the  first  Carlist  War,  are  regarded  as  the  benefactors  of  Spain  and 
of  humanity ;  an  old  Spaniard  is  represented  as  considering  it  one 
of  his  proudest  distinctions  to  have  rendered  a  service  to  the  great 
Betittgton,  while  another  Englishman,  Lord  John  Hay,  is  favourably 
known  to  the  populace  as  Lorch^n.     In  the  thirties,  of  which  period 
Galdt^s  has  given  us  such  a  minute  and  careful  picture,  English, 
and  not  French,  fashions  were  the  rage  in  Madrid,  and  Mendizabal's 
English  clothes  were  the  envy  and  admiration  of  all  who  beheld 
them.     It  was  to  London  that  the  Spaniards  of  that  time  looked  for 
political  no  less  than  sartorial  advice,  and  even  the  Carlists  were 
constrained  to  imitate  their  opponents    and   import    a    financial 
Minister  from  the  City.     When  an  enthusiastic  mechanician,  whom 
his  friends  regard  as  crazy  because  he  foretells  the  construction  of 
screw-steamers  and  ironclads,  dreams  of  a  great  commercial  future 
for  Bilbao,  it  is  to  England  that  he  looks  for  llie  capital  and  enterprise 
necessary  to  accomplish  his  ideal.'     And  it  is  the  British  House  of 
Commons  which  the  Spanish  Uberal  statesmen  of  that  generation 
extolled  as  the  highest  incarnation  of  political  wisdom  !     Among 
his  own  countrymen,  the  author  reserved  the  highest  encomium  for 
the  people  of  Aragdn  and  Navarre,  whose  tenacity  of  purpose  he  is 
never  tired  of  extolling.    When  an  old  rake  is  asked  how  he  had 
the  audacity  to  make  love  to  the  Empress  Josephine,  he  answers  by 
the  simple  and  sufficient  reply  :  '*  I  come  from  Navarre."    On  the 
other  hand,  the  butt  of  the  company  is  usually  an  Andalusian,  with 
his  soft  pronunciation  and  his  clipped  and  shortened  words.    Tor  the 
Basques,  in  spite  of  their  devotion  to  Don  Carlos,  the  novelist  has 
a  regard  no  less  strong  than  that  which   Loti  has  shown  in  his 
famous  story  of  Basque  life,  "Ramuntcho."    That  strange  people 
with  its  tmcouth  tongue  naturally  pla}'s  a'great  part  in  his  narrative, 
and  if,  for  the  bene6t  of  his  readers,  he  has  translated  the  phrases 
of  that  primitive  language,  which  is  said  to  have  puzzled  even  the 
devil,  he  has  left  all  the  local  colour  of  the  Basque  Provinces  in 
hb  picture. 

Galdds  is  intensely  patriotic;  and  while  his  patriotism  is  for 
Spain  as  a  whole,  without  distinction  of  races  or  languages,  he  has 
done  something  in  the  course  of  his  rutional  epic  to  stimulate  the 

vot.  ccxci.    NO.  2049.  K 


226 


The  Geniienian's  Magazine. 


pride  of  almost  every  city  in  the  Peninsula.  The  social  life  and 
politics  of  the  capital  &re  dearly  reflected  in  his  stories ;  the  plays 
aud  the  scandals ;  the  new  fashions  and  the  new  jokes  that  interested 
and  amused  Madrid  under  Ferdinand  VII.  and  his  "angelic" 
daughter  arc  faithfully  recalled.  The  gardens  of  I^  Cranja,  the 
lugged  passes  of  the  Pyrenees,  the  small  northern  towns  among  the 
mountains,  the  great  brown  plains  of  Castile,  and  the  invincible 
fortress  of  Bilbao  pass  in  succession  before  our  view.  He  does  not 
idealise,  but  presents  things  and  places  as  they  were,  and  we  miss  at 
times  the  quaint  picturcsqueness  with  which  Borrow,  writing  of  the 
same  period,  invests  even  much  that  was  commonplace  in  the  Spain 
of  that  day.  Nor  is  Galdos  tempted  to  take  higher  flights  into  the 
regions  of  philosophy  and  metaphysics ;  he  presents  us  with  no 
complicated  problems  of  science  or  religion ;  he  contents  himself 
with  the  more  useful  function  of  interpreting  the  past  life  of  the 
Spanish  jKople  for  the  beneGt  of  the  new  generation.  Yet  in  the 
third  series  of  his  "  Episodios  "  he  is  beset  by  the  danger,  as  he 
himself  points  out,  tliat  he  may  inadvertently  give  offence  to  some 
who  arc  old  enough  to  have  witnessed  the  events  nanalcd.  It  was 
this  fear  which  made  him  decide  at  first  to  close  the  natiotial  epic 
with  the  end  of  the  second  series,  and  it  was  only  after  a  long 
interval  that  he  altered  his  intention  and  added  a  third  series  of  ten 
more  volumes  to  those  already  published.  Judged  by  Spanish 
standards  this  sequel  seems  to  have  attained  success,  for  as  many 
as  10,000  copies  have  been  issued  of  several  <A  these  later  stories. 
Gald(5s  humorously  complains  that  his  countrymen  always  borrow 
any  book  that  they  desire  to  read ;  but  his  work  has  recently  been 
laid  before  them  in  the  cheapest  and  most  popular  of  all  forms — 
that  of  iX^^  feuiUetoH  at  the  bottom  of  the  page  of  a  halfpenny  news- 
paper, the  Republican  Pais. 

Unlike  so  many  modern  novelists,  the  leading  Spanish 
writer  is  singularly  free  from  all  that  is  morbid  and  un- 
wholesome. The  youngest  of  "  young  persons  "  might  read  him 
without  being  shocked.  In  his  descriptions  of  private  life  be 
looks  at  the  bright  side  of  things,  and,  possessed  of  a  keen  sense 
of  humour,  is  frankly  and  genially  optimistic.  But  when  he  posses 
on  to  consider  the  future  of  his  country  he  becomes  a  pessimist,  and 
in  this  respect  he  may  be  compared  with  most  Italian  writers  of  the 
present  day.  At  the  end  of  the  second  series  of  the  "  Episodios 
Nacionales"  there  is  a  dialogue  on  the  prospects  of  Spain  between  a 
sanguine  old  gentleman  and  a  disillusioned  Liberal.  The  latier's 
opinion  we  take  to  be  that  of  the  author,  from  tlie  great  stress  which 


Tiu  Novels  of  Pdrez  Galdds. 


» 


U  laid  upon  iL  "Salvador,"  he  writes,  "  had  but  Hitle  confidence  in 
the  union  between  liberty  and  the  Church,  of  which  his  companion 
dreamed.  He  bid  bare  bis  inmost  tliouglus,  and  said  that  in  all  his 
lifetime  he  expected  to  see  nothing  but  blunders  and  errors,  barren 
struggles,  essays  and  attempts,  leaps  backwards  and  forwards,  corrup- 
tion of  the  new  system  which  would  increase  the  partisans  of  the 
old,  noble  ideas  degraded  by  treachery  and  progress  almost  always 
conquered  in  its  conflict  with  ignorance.  '  Better  days,'  he  cried, 
as  he  pointed  with  his  stick  to  the  horizon,  '  are  still  so  far  off  that 
assuredly  neither  ycu  nor  I  will  lire  to  see  them.  Reform  is  slow, 
because  the  disease  is  serious  and  dccp-scated  and  can  only  be 
cured  by  individual  efToit.  ^ty  ideal  is  far  ahead.  But  it  will  come, 
and  even  if  we  are  not  allowed  to  see  it  realised  we  may  console 
ourselves  by  penetrating,  in  thought  at  least,  the  dark  future  and 
contemplating  the  beautiful  innovations  of  the  Spain  of  our  grand- 
children. Meanwhile  I  cannot  share  your  enthusiasm,  because  I 
do  not  believe  in  the  present.  I  seem  to  be  a  spectator  of  a  bad 
comedy.  I  neither  applaud  nor  hiss.  I  am  silent  and  perhaps 
asleep  in  my  stall.  I  shall  dream  of  that  distant  future  of  our 
country,  of  that  time,  my  dear  friend,  when  the  majority  of  Spaniards 
will  laugh  at  your  angelic  innocence  of  politics.' "  *  These  lines  were 
written  in  1879,  but  the  events  of  the  last  twenty-two  years  do  not 
appear  to  have  greatly  modified  the  author's  views.  In  his  manifesto 
on  the  state  of  Spain,  published  last  April,^  he  despairs  of  the  future 
unless  the  education  of  the  young  can  be  taken  out  of  the  hands  of 
the  Jesuits  and  the  Government  of  the  country  taken  out  of  the 
hands  of  the  professional  politicians.  1 -ike  Gambctta  he  points  to 
clericalism  as  "  the  enemy,"  while  he  considers  the  Spanish  system  of 
(tmqvismOy  or  the  supremacy  of  a  few  party  leaders,  or  '*  wirepullers," 
as  wc  should  say,  as  the  curse  of  parliamentary  institutions. 
Certainly,  unlike  his  hero,  Salvador,  whom  we  have  just  quoted,  he 
b  not  content  to  be  merely  a  ".spectator."  He  has  rendered  by  his 
writings  yeoman's  service  to  wliat  he  considers  to  be  die  true  interest 
of  his  country,  and  as  he  is  not  yet  an  old  man  he  should  have 
plenty  of  useful  work  still  left  in  him.  Like  Salvador,  too,  he  has  no 
family  ties,  and  can  accordingly  devote  himself  entirely  to  his  task. 
Unfortunately  for  his  fame  abroad,  those  who  write  in  Spanish  must 
be,  for  the  most  part,  content  to  find  their  audience  either  in  Spain 
or  in  South  America.    Happy  is  the  novelist  whose  lot  it  is  to  be 


•  U»fa£thsa  mSs  y  algutwi /railtt  menfi,  pp-  3»8-^ 
»  ffet-arJa  dt  Madridt  April  9,  190I, 


a  J 


^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^1 1 

The  Gentieman^s  Magazine, 

France  or  Great  Britain,  And  who  thtis  escapes  those 
who  are  proverbially  traditori ! 

is  the  epic  which  Gald6s  has  written  for  the  benefit  of  his 
in.      He  treats  of  a  time  when,  as  he  saySf  "  poor  modern 
1  was  vanishing,  rubbed  out  like  paint  that  had  been  badly 
d  leaving  behind  it  feudal  quarrels,  mystic  2eal  and  super- 
irrible  cruelties  and  eminent  virtues,  heroism  and  poetry, 
mtton  of  angels  and  devils,  who  walked  about  the  world, 
[  and  at  liberty."'     The  theme  is  a  good  one,  but  the 
"  execution  is  not  always  excellent.     Galdds  wrote  these 
s  of  thirty  novels  at  headlong  speed  ;  some  volumes  were 
iff  in  some  six  weeks  at  Santander,  where  the  novelist 

time  when,  he  is  not  in  Madrid*     Hence  they  lack  finish, 
reader  who    has   fotlowed  the  adventures   of  a  leading 
or  some  twenty  chapters  is  astonished  to  find  the  person- 
am he  is  interested  married  or  killed  off  in  a  single  page, 

in  a  few  lines,  at  the  end-    A  foreigner  cannot  pretend  to 
of  a  Spanish  writer's  style  ;  but  Spaniards  accuse  C^]d(5s  ol 
aisms  in  his  prose.    He  certainly  writes  clearly,  and  shows 
li  knowledge  of  human  nature.     AVhether  his  work  will 
ns  [0  be  seen  ;  perhaps  he  has  been  too  prolilic  a  writer 

THE  EDUCATION  OF  THE  EARLY 
NONCONFORMISTS. 


EDMUND  CALAMY  wrote  "A  Historical  Account  of  ray  Own 
Life,"  1671-1731,  which  was  first  published  in  1829,  under  the 
editorship  of  John  Towill  Rult;  and  from  this  wc  can  learn  direct 
as  to  his  schools  and  masters. 

Calaniy  came  from  a  representative  Puritan  family.  His  father 
was  one  of  the  ejected  ministers  of  1662.  His  f.xiher's  father— they 
all  are  called  Edmund  for  Christian  name — was  one  of  the  authors  of 
"  Smeclyninuus."  His  father's  father's  father  is  said  to  have  been  an 
exiled  Huguenot  from  the  coast  of  Normandy.  They  were  each  of 
them  learned  men,  given  to  the  Puritanic  traditions.  But  in  i66j, 
E^dmund  Calamy,  father  of  the  writer  of  the  autobiosraphy,  was  driven 
from  his  church,  though  he  had  voluntarily  given  of  his  means  to  the 
King's  Exchequer  in  1661.  After  e\*iction  from  his  living,  Calamy 
continued  to  preach  privately  in  his  own  house.  But,  by  the 
Clarendon  Code  in  operation,  this  was  illegal,  and  warrants  were 
issued  against  him.  "And  though,"  as  we  arc  told  in  the  Non- 
conformists' Memorial, "  he  usually  met  his  people  every  Lord's  Day, 
and  sometimes  twice  in  a  day,  and  even  several  times  in  a  week,  so 
favourable  was  Providence  to  him  that  he  was  never  once  disturbed 
in  the  time  of  divine  worship." 

Before  proceeding  to  an  account  of  Edmund  Calamy's  education, 
it  is  fitting  to  note  the  manner  of  father  whom  he  had,  Here  is  the 
old-time  description  of  him :  "  He  was  a  man  of  peace  and  of  a  very 
candid  spirit,  who  could  not  be  charged,  by  any  that  knew  him,  with 
being  a  Nonconformist  either  out  of  humour  or  for  gain.  He 
abhorred  a  close  and  narrow  spirit,  which  affects  or  confines  religion 
to  a  party,  and  was  much  rather  for  a  comprehension  than  for  a 
perpetual  separation.  He  was  ready  to  do  good  to  all  as  he  had 
opportunity,  though  such  a  lover  of  retirement,  that  he  was  for 
passing  through  the  world  with  as  little  observation  as  possible;  and 
therefore,  he  was  not  upon  any  occasion  to  be  persuaded  to  appear 
i«  print,"    Or,  to  quote  the  words  of  the  son's  autobiography : — 


a30 


The  Gentlemans  Magazine* 


"  I  was  from  my  infancy  carefully  instructed  in  the  common 
Christian  principles  of  truth  and  duty,  so  in  matters  of  diiTcTence 
among  professing  Christians  I  had  moderation  instilled  into  tne  from 
my  very  cradle.  Never  did  I  hear  my  father  inveigh  against  those 
that  officiated  in  the  public  churches,  nor  did  he  attempt  to  create 
in  me  any  prejudices  against  them  or  their  way ;  but  he  took  all 
occasions  that  offered  to  declare  against  heat  and  rancour  on  all 
sides,  and  for  loving  all  such  as  were  truly  pious  and  bore  the  image 
of  God  upon  them,  wlialsocvcr  their  particular  sentiments  might  be." 

The  latitudinarianism  of  men  like  Jeremy  Taylor  and  Chilling- 
worth  was  repeated  in  the  Puritan  Nonconformists  like  Edmujid 
Calamy.  To  show  this  side  of  Nonconformity,  it  would  only  be 
necessary  to  trace  the  history  of  its  cultured  men ;  and  an  investigation 
of  the  annals  of  the  dissenting  academies  of  the  seventeenth  and 
eighteenth  centuries  would  show  that  the  claim  of  the  exercise  of  the 
judgment  and  conscience  by  the  individual  was  one  made  ivith  a 
tender  consciousness  of  the  right  of  all  others  to  exercise  the  same 
privilege,  to  whatever  conclusions  they  might  thus  be  led.  No  doubt 
the  sufferings  which  were  undergone  by  Nonconformists  embittered 
many  against  their  persecutors ;  still,  the  Nonconformist  ministry  has 
never  lacked  witness,  even  in  the  midst  of  suffering,  to  the  right  of 
their  persecutors  to  hold  their  own  convictions  as  long  as  they  were 
held  sincerely.  And  so  one  generation  passed  on  to  another  the  gentle 
word,  tnoderation  or  toleration,  and  it  is  to  this  Puritanic  tradition,  in 
a  very  high  degree,  that  we  must  trace  historically  the  basis  of  liberal 
Christianity,  which  is  prepared  to  face  all  investigation  so  as  to  find 
llic  truth,  and  to  put  aside  prejudices  of  partisanship  and  of  creed. 
The  elder  Calamy,  as  described  by  the  son,  was  not  an  exceptional 
Nonconformist;  he  is  typical  of  the  more  cultured,  as  they  passed  on 
the  light  of  their  free  souls  from  generation  to  generation.  The 
history  of  the  education  of  these  men,  persecuted  and  despised  as 
ihoy  were  by  scornful  and  self-satisfied  contemporaries,  would  be 
the  flnest  record  of  education,  outside  of  the  ancient  Universities  of 
Cambridge  and  Oxford,  to  be  found  in  England.  It  is  not  improbable 
that  in  the  eighteenth  century  their  academies  afforded  an  education 
cyan  superior  to  the  contemporary  Universities — sujwrior,  if  not  in 
book-learning,  at  any  rate  in  the  culture  of  the  finer  virtues  of  life. 

Whilst  Edmund  Calamy  is  typical  of  the  emphatic  appreciation 
of  the  best  culture  of  the  times  by  the  Puritanic  Nonconformists,  he 
has  admirably  supplied  in  his  autobiography  the  means  of  tracing 
his  course  of  education.  He  changes  his  schools  frci^ucntly,  but 
ihcre  seems  to  be  a  method  in  his  madness.    Either  his  own  family 


» 


Tke  Edu^atton  of  the  Early  Nonconformists,    231 

to  remore  out  of  the  way  ol  those  who  arc  likely  to  Interfcr- 
with  or  persecute  them,  or  those  who  are  keeping  school  find  they 
are  within  reach  of  the  law  for  endeavouring  to  teach  school  without 
confonntDg  to  the  Church,  and  taking  out  a  licence  for  teaching 
from  the  Bishop  of  the  diocese  in  which  they  were  living. 

In  his  early  years  Calamy  was  taught  at  home  by  his  mother.  He 
was  very  delicate,  and  his  mother,  who  was  naturally  anxious  about 
him,  look  great  pains  over  lura  as  to  his  reading  and  to  his  know- 
ledge of  the  Catechism.  '*  And  when  I  had  learned  it  she  carried  ms 
in  her  hands  and  delivered  me  to  the  care  of  good  old  Mr.  Thomas 
l>yo,  to  be  publicly  catechised  by  him  on  Saturday  afternoons,  at 
Dyers'  Hall,  having  been  herself  catechised  by  him  in  her  younger 
years,  which  she  seemed  to  mention  with  abundance  of  pleasure. 
That  old  gentleman  was  remarkable  for  his  particular  talent  in 
dealing  with  children  upon  the  first  principles  of  religion  ;  and 
some  were  observed,"  adds  Calamy,  with  modesty  of  statement,  '*  lo 
retain  the  good  impressions  then  made  upon  them  all  their  days 
after." 

It  is  not  easy  at  the  present  time  to  estimate  the  importance  and 
infiuenceofthecatecheticalinstructionofthepast  From  John  Brinsley, 
in  161  a,  in  his  "  Ludus  Uterarius,"  and  from  Charles  Hoole's  "New 
Discovery  of  the  Old  Art  of  Teaching  School,"  in  1660,  we  learn  that 
religious  instruction  by  means  of  catechisms  ^  was  part  of  the  regular 
school  course,  though  in  boarding-schools  it  formed  a  constituent 
part  of  the  Sunday  occupation.  Adam  Martindale,  in  his  "Autobio- 
graphy "(Chetharo  Society's  Publications,  vol.  iv.  p.  12a),  says :  "Within 
the  compass  of  this  septennium,  in  the  year  1656,  the  ministers  .  .  . 
agreed  upon  some  propositions  about  the  work  of  personal  instruc- 
tion. Multitudes  of  little  catechisms  we  caused  lo  be  printed, 
designing  one  for  every  family  in  our  parishes;  and  to  all  or  most 
ihey  were  accordingly  sent."  It  is  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  tlie 
Assembly's  Catechism,  though  the  most  famous,  was  the  only 
catechism  In  use.  There  were  many.  In  a  catalogue,  of  1658, 
of  books  "vendible  in  England,"  I  notice  over  twenty,  besides 
inwjmerable  expositions  of  the  Lord's  Prayer,  different  portions  of 
Scripture,  and  of  the  Creed.  Amongst  these  teachers  Mr.  Thomas 
Lye  held,  as  Calamy  affirms,  an  honoured  place.  He  had  written 
an  explanation  of  the  Shorter  Catechism,  under  the  title  "The 
Assemblies  Shorter  Catechism,  drawn  out  into  distinct  propositions, 

*  Charles  Hoole  aiys  the  oiastcr  is  not  to  "  wiU  it  in  ■  (nlinus,  iinneihocluei) 
nurse,  concerning  ihlngs  anncccsatj  to  be  tmkeo  notice  of,  and  unmeant  for 
ijren  to  be  puzxlcd  nith." 


232 


The  Genileman^s  Magazine, 


and  proved  by  plain  and  pertinent  Texts  of  Scripture  at  large. 

With  short  Rules  of  Direction  for  Masters  of  Famtiies^  how  to  use  this 
Book  to  the  best  advaritage."  This  was  printed  in  1674.  It  is  in  the 
directions  to  masters  of  families  we  see  that  Thomas  Lye  was  alive 
to  the  importance  uf  teaching— and  it  is  to  the  same  spirit  was  due 
the  well-known  work  of  that  famous  Nonconformist,  Daniel  Defoe, 

•The  Family  Instructor."  Hereare Thomas  Lye's  plain  directions  : — 

1.  Thai  it  should  be  gone  throu^jh  in  a  family  once  a  month. 
It  is  therefore  divided  into  thirty  pans. 

2.  It  is  to  be  distinctly  read  over  by  ports  at  a  time,  till  the 
portion  for  the  day  is  fmtshed. 

3.  "When  you  first  begin  to  examine  your  family,  let  thcra 
answer  only  within  book ;  and  Jafter  you  have  once  or  twice  gone 
over  the  whole  Catechism  witliin  book,  and  you  perceive  the  under- 
standings to  be  somewhat  enlightened,  then,  and  not  till  then,  let 
them  be  required  to  answer  without  book" 

4.  Keep  close  and  constant  to  the  questions  of  the  text. 

We  thus  see  the  method  of  teaching  adopted  by  Mr.  Lye.  In 
1673  he  published  his  vicwsat  more  length,  in  "  A  Plain  and  Familiar 
Method  of  Instructing  the  Younger  Sort.  According  to  the  Lesser 
Catechism  of  the  late  Reverend  Assembly  of  Divines,  specially 
intended  for  Governours  of  Families."  He  there  lays  down  that 
there  arc  seven  rules  of  catechising : — 

First.  That  the  question  be  barely  propounded,  and  the  answer 
returned. 

Second.  That  truth  must  be  separated  from  falsehood  by  trying 
the  child's  understanding  with  further  simple  questions.  "To  repeat 
words,"  he  says,  "and  not  to  understand  the  truths  contained  m 
Ihera,  is  but  to  act  the  parrot,  and  profits  very  little." 

Third.  The  child  must  be  tested  as  to  his  ability  to  express  his 
knowledge  of  the  meaning  of  every  hard  and  diflSculi  word  or 
phrase. 

Founh.  Draw  the  whole  answerinto  several  doctrinal  propositions 
if  it  contains  more  than  one.  Bid  the  child  prove  each  of  them  by 
Scripture,  since  "  the  Holy  Scriptures  arc  the  only  foundation  and 
touchstone  or  proof  of  infallible  and  saving  truth." 

Fifth.  "  Take  the  several  Scriptures  annexed  to  the  answer,  and  in 
order  propose  them  distinctly  to  the  child.  Ask  him  what  he 
obsen'es  from  them,  and  from  wlut  part  of  the  text  especially  he 
draws  his  observation." 

Sixth.  Propose  such  usual  objections  from  Scripture  or  reason  as 
seem  to  contradict  the  truths  asserted. 


The  Education  of  (he  Early  Noiumforwuts.    z^ 

Seventh.  Particularly  improve  and  apply  the  several  truths  which 
have  been  opened  and  proved  by  Scripture. 

All  these  directions  arc  copiously  and  conclusively  illustrated  by 
Mr.  Lye,  and,  given  his  premiss  that  the  Scriptures  are  the  "only 
foundation  of  infallible  truth,"  and  that  they  can  be  dissected  into 
texts  of  equally  iiifallible  worth,  whether  isolated  or  in  their  context, 
Lye's  method  is  excellent,  and  is  undoubtedly  keenly  logical  Indeed, 
be  was  in  sober  earnest  over  this  matter  of  education.  He  published 
"A  New  SpeUing  Book."  The  book  is  fully  described  by  iu  further 
title,  "Or  Reading  and  Spelling  English  made  Easier.  Wherein  all 
the  words  of  our  English  Bible  are  set  down  in  an  alphabetical  order, 
and  divided  into  their  distinct  syllables.  Together  with  the  grounds 
of  the  English  tongue  laid  in  verse,  wherein  are  couch'd  many 
moral  precepts.  By  the  help  whereof,  with  God's  blessing,  little 
children,  and  others  of  ordinary  caducities,  may,  in  few  months^ 
be  enabled  exactly  to  read  and  spdl  the  whole  Bible."  Thomas  Lye 
signs  himself'*Fhibnglu5,"  and  the  British  Museum  copy  is  the  second 
edition,  published  in  1677.  At  the  end  of  Lye's  1674  edition  of 
"The  Assemblies  Shorter  Catechism"  is  an  advertisement  of  "The 
Child's  Delight,  together  with  an  English  Gramar." 

It  is  quite  clear  that  Thooias  Lye  was  logically  driven  into 
paying  attention  to  the  teaching  of  children,  since  religious  truth 
required  a  knowledge  of  the  Scriptures,  and  these  again  could  only 
be  consulted  through  a  knowledge  of  reading  and  spelling.  His 
spell ing4>ook,  therefore,  contains  the  words  used  in  the  English 
Bible,  But  the  teaching  to  read  (for  the  sake  of  Bible-reading) 
becomes  eventually  an  end  in  itself,  and  Lye  becomes  enthusiastic 
in  drawing  others  to  the  work  of  leaching.  The  advice  given  to 
amateur  teachers  of  spelling  is  excellent,  but  it  is  too  long  to  quote. 
Lye  triumphantly  asserts :  "  I  have  presented  thee  with  something 
that  thou  thyself  wilt  say  is  new.  Probably  thou  hast  heard  of  an 
Iliad  in  a  nutshell,  or  seen  the  ten  commandments  cut  on  a  small 
petuiy.  But  didst  ever  yet  behold  the  whole  Bible,  every  word 
therein  distinctly  set  before  thine  eyes,  in  a  few  pages?" 

Edmund  Calamy  learned  to  read  from  Mr.  Lye.  He  says  of 
himself :  "  I  was  betimes  inclined  to  learning,  a  lover  of  my  book, 
and  eagerly  bent  on  being  a  scholar."  He  left  Mr.  Lye,  we  arc 
not  told  why,  and  learned  "  the  accidence  and  grammar "  from 
Mr.  Nelson,  curate  of  Aldermanbur^-,  "  who  kept  school  in  the  \'cstry 
of  the  church  of  St  Alphagc."  On  leaving  Mr.  Nelson,  Calamy  was 
sent  "  for  the  bene6t  of  the  air  "  to  Mr.  Yewel's  at  Epsom,  in  Surrey. 
Mr.  Nelson  had  been  too  indulgent;  Mr.  Yewel  was  too  strict    He 


I 


234 


The  GetUUman's  Magazine, 


was  not  a  great  scholar,  but  very  pious,  spending  much  of  his  own 
and  of  his  pupils'  time  in  prayer.  Calamy  thus  describes  this 
school  :— 

"  This  good  man  had  a  considerable  number  of  boys  under  his 
care;  but  they  fared  so  well,  and  the  rates  he  had  witli  them  were 
so  low^  and  he  was  at  the  same  time  at  so  great  an  expense  to  keep 
up  a  meeting  on  the  Lord's  Day  in  his  school-house,  to  which 
ministers  came  down  every  week  from  London,  that  he  got  very  little 
for  all  his  pains,  and  he  was  often  in  trouble.  And  it  was  observed 
that  he  proved  at  last  but  unhappy  in  some  of  his  own  children,  who 
discredited  thdr  strict  religious  education.  My  being  there  increased 
and  confirmed  my  health,  though  it  did  not  much  advance  me  in 
learning." 

Calamy  next  went  to  scliool  with  a  man  who  had  been  a  pupil 
under  the  famous  Dr.  Busby,  of  Westminster  School — Mr.  Tatnal— 
who  kept  school  in  Winchester  Street,  near  Pinner's  Hall.  Mr. 
Tatnal,  we  leara  from  the  Nonconformists'  Memorial,  bad  had 
experience  in  teaching  at  the  free  school  at  Cox-cntry,  and  is  said  to 
have  taken  "great  and  successful  pains  in  instructing  youth."  He 
is  also  said  to  have  had  great  skill  in  vocal  and  instrumental  musiCj 
which  rendered  him  "acceptable  to  many  of  the  gentry  in  and  about 
the  city."  Calamy  says  that  whilst  at  the  school  he  sometimes  said 
by  heart  a  satire  in  Juvenal  in  a  morning. 

In  1682— that  is,  when  CaUimy  was  eleven  years  of  age — he  went 
to  Mr.  Doolittle's  school,  apparently  as  a  boarder.  Mr.  Doolittlewas 
a  native  of  Kidderminster,  and  had  been  "converted"  by  Richard 
Baxter.  He  studied  at  Canibrii^e,  and  entered  the  Church.  But  in 
1662,  on  the  passing  of  the  Act  of  Uniformity,  "upon  the  whole"  he 
thought  it  his  "duty  to  be  a  Non -conformist."  He  first  started  a 
boarding-school  at  Moorficlds,  then  a  larger  one  in  Bunhill  Fields, 
and  during  the  plague  he  removed  to  Woodford  Bridge,  near  Chigwell, 
in  Essex,  in  1665.  His  next  place  of  school  was  at  Wimbledon,  and 
then  at  Islington.  It  was  whilst  he  was  at  Islington  that  Edmund 
Calamy  became  his  pupil.  Calamy  says  that  Doolittle  had  a  "con- 
siderable academy  "  in  his  house.  He  names  some,  who  became  well- 
known  mini.sters  of  religion,  who  were  his  contemporaries  at  Mr. 
Doolittle's,  studying  philosophy  and  divinity.  Calamy  says  it  was  of 
advantage  to  him  and  to  Ebencwr  Chandler,  another  boy,  "to 
have  from  day  to  day  free  liberty  of  conversing  with  those  who,  in 
age  and  knowledge,  were  so  much  our  superiors."  Mr.  Dooh'itlc 
was  again  obliged  "  by  disturbance  "  to  remove,  this  time  to  Battersea, 
whitlier  Calamy  did  not  follow  him. 


Bdmcmtian  of  tkt  Earfy  Nofum^formisls,   235 

Calamy  next  vas  pUced  at  the  MerchuU  Tajrloc^  Sdioo2,  under 
Mr.  HATtcUfl: 

5£r.  Uaitcliff  placed  Cakmy  in  the  fifth  fonn,  and  sooo  raised 
him  to  the  sixth.     As  an  ilhtttntion  of  the  disability  of  Nor- 
looolbrmists  of  the  time  to  their  school  caieer,  the  instance  of  Joseph 
iKentiith  is  worth  qooting  from  Calamy :   *'  He  was  captain  of  the 
,  andt  in  compKance  with  hi»  £kther,  stood  ai  this  time  as  one 
^desrous  of  going  to  the  University,  for  which  he  was  generally 
redoned  as  fit  as  anvone  in  the  school     AH  in  the  u|^r  forms  were 
then   examined  by  Bii^hop  Mew,  of  \\'inchester,  the  President  of 
Sl  John's,  Dr.  Kidder,  and  other  divines,  who  gave  their  presence 
,  tipon  the  occasion.    The  upper  scholars  were  examined  with  a 
Ipecnliar  strictness,  and  none  more  criiically  than  this  Mr.  Kentish, 
rho  gave  great  satis^ction.     But  the  examines  being  informed  that 
This  ^ber  was  a  Dissenting  niinister,  after  they  had  gone  over  sercnil 
parts  of  learning,  according  to  custom,  thought  fit  to  ask  him  some 
questions  about  conformity   to  the  Church.     Among  other  things 
they  inquired  whether  he  had  ever  recei\'ed  the  Sacrament  according 
to  the  Church  of  Engbnd?     He  returning  a  negative  answer,  they 
seemed  surprised,  and  blamed  the  master  for  not  obliging  the  upper 
lads  that  intended  10  stand  at  the   election  for  the  University  to 
receive  the  Sacrament  before  they  did  so,  desiring  that  this  nught  bo 
carefully  minded  for  the  future.     They  asked  Mr.  Kentish  whether 
he  was  free  to  receive  the  Sacrament   in    the  Established  Church, 
telling  him  lliat  without  that— luy,  without  yielding  to  an  entire  con- 
formity— he  had  better  not  think  of  the  University,  which  would  be 
a-giving  him-telf  and  others  much  needless  trouble.     He  modestly 
made  answer  that  he  had  not,  as  yet,  received  the  Sacrament  any- 
where,   not  being  satisfied   as   to  his  being  fit  or  qualified  for  so 
solemn  an  ordinance  ;  and,  he  added,  that  as  to  conformity  in  all 
hthings  to  the  Church  of  England,  it  was  a  thing  of  weight,  and  that  he 
'could  not  but  think  it  would  be  a  great  weakness  in  him  to  pretend  to 
determine  or  promise  it  without  mature  and  close  consideration.** 
iTbe  examinere,  whilst  they  applauded  Mr.  Kentish's  learning,  agreed 
rto  appoint  someone  else  in  his  stead.     Hartcliff,  it  is  said,'  received 
the  appointment  of  Headmaster  of  the  Merchant  Taylors'  School 
through  the  interest  of  his  uncle.  Dr.  John  Owen.     But  Calnmy 
speaks  well  of  him:  "Often  would  he  carry  me  into  his  Btudy  and 
talk  with  me  alone  about  the  improvement  of  my  leisure  time.     He 
lent  mc  Greek  authors,  which  I  found  great  pleasure  in  readings 

»  Wilson.  HiUtry  tf  Menkant  Tayitrt*  S,h»ct. 


2.?6 


Tht  Gentleman's  Magazine, 


often  wondering  at  St,  Augustine's  acknowledgment  that  in  the 
beginning  of  his  studies  he  haled  Greek  learning.  My  master  also 
furnished  me  with  other  books,  putting  me  upon  making  references 
and  remarks  in  a  sort  of  commonplace  book ;  inquired  bow  I  went 
cn,  and  gave  me  particular  directions  and  advice  as  he  sav 
occasion.  When  I  was  leaving  him  he  offered  me  any  ser\'ice  he 
could  do  me  at  the  University  if  I  looked  that  way;  and  when  he 
was  afterwards  made  one  of  the  Canons  of  Windsor,  and  heard  I  was 
conic  abroad  into  the  world,  he  would  often  speak  of  mc  with  respect, 
upon  occasion,  and  when  I  came  in  his  way  ever  treated  me  with  the 
utmost  civility."  Again,  Cakimy  was  placed  with  an  ejected  minister, 
Mr.  Walton,  at  Bethnal  Green,  but  had  to  leave  through  his  school 
breaking  up.  Whilst  there,  however,  he  says  he  and  another  pupil 
"  had  free  access  to  the  old  gentleman's  library,  and  were  admitted 
to  familiar  conversation  with  him,  who  spent  some  time  with  us  every 
morning  and  afternoon  in  reading  Thucydides  and  Tacitus,  on  both 
which  he  would  make  pleasant  remarks  as  we  went  along.  This  I 
found  both  agreeable  and  profitable." 

A\Tiilst  Cabmy  was  at  Bethnal  Green,  Mr.  Charles  Morton  heard 
of  him.  This  Mr,  Morton  is  described  as  one  who  had  been 
"  eminent  for  training  up  young  gentlemen  in  an  academical 
way  at  Nemngton  Green."  But,  driven  by  persecution  to  seek 
refuge  in  America,  he  determined  to  invite  others  to  accompany  him, 
and  asked  Calamy  to  come  and  be  as  his  own  child  to  him. 
Calamy's  mother  objected,  and  instead  of  going  to  America  with 
Mr.  Morton,  the  youth  next  went  to  Mr.  Samuel  Cradock. 

Cradock  had  been  a  Fellow  of  Emmanuel  College  at  Cambridge, 
and,  taking  a  living  in  Somersetshire, ;wa5  ejected  in  1662.  Later  on, 
however,  he  had  succeeded  to  an  estate  in  Suffolk,  and  from  1673  to 
1706,  in  which  year  he  died,  he  acted  as  a  minister  of  religion  with- 
out payment,  and  look  in  pupils  to  his  "  academy."  He  lived  as  a 
country  gentleman.  There  Calamy  met  Mr.  Timothy  Goodwin,  who 
was  a  good  Grecian,  and  "  we  two  often  spent  our  winter  evenings 
together  in  reading  over  some  or  other  Greek  author."  Goodwin 
became  Archbishop  of  Cashel.  **  Mr.  Cradock  treated  us  in  a 
gendenunlike  manner.  He  lived  upon  his  own  estate,  kept  a  good 
house,  and  was  much  respected  by  the  gentlemen  all  round  the 
countT)', preached  in  his  omi  dwelling  twice  every  Lord's  Day,and  such 
of  his  neighbours  as  were  inclined  to  it  were  his  auditors,  and  his 
ministry  was  of  use,  though  he  had  nothing  for  his  pains.  He  had  a 
good  correspondence  with  old  Mr.  Cowpcr,  the  minister  of  the 
parish." 


TAe  Edmcaium  of  ike  Early  Ntmamformists.    257 

WhcnCalany  hadgonelfaroag^acoaiaeof  phikianiihy  widiMr. 
Cradock  he  letpmcd  to  London,  and  for  a  afaoit  time  be  was  again 
I^aced  under  Mr.  DooGttle.  In  1687-^8  be  vas  nsed  to  go  to 
HoQanc^  to  pmsne  his  stodies  at  Ubecfat.  On  irarhiiig  Utiecfa^ 
Calamj  went  to  die  Enghdi  coflee-hoos^  and  ducofcicd  a  wnnhgr 
of  F.«g1i«h  itndnitii  and  cesidents.  There  was  abo  an  Fn^ith 
cfaarcb,  thoogb  vitb  a  Dnrrhman  as  pieadier.  ia  to  tbe  UtredA 
students  Calamy  says : — 

**  I  cannot  bat  radon  it  a  disuhantage  to  diem  that  tfaey  were 
left  to  their  ovn  my,  witboot  aiqrooe  to  instruct  tbeir  uuaueia. 
Tbeynug^  indeed,  be  as  good  as  they  would,  stody  baid  in  thdr 
sevoal  lod^i^nga^  and  lire  sobeify  and  nrtooosly,  if  tfaey  were  that 
way  inclined ;  bat  if  it  were  otherwise;  and  they  mtwpent  their 
time^  and  neither  attended  the  professors  nor  studied  in  their  own 
quarters,  ibef  bad  none  calling  them  to  an  aocoont ;  and  I  cannot 
but  s^  I  re<^on  the  collegiate  wa^  of  liviog  in  oar  Eng^  Unirtr- 
aities^  iriiere  lads  have  their  particnlar  tnton^  as  wdl  as  each  hoose 
has  a  separate  master  empowered  to  keep  in  order  his  own  sociely, 
much  to  be  piefeiied  to  the  liriz^  so  at  laij^" 

As  to  studies  at  Utrech^  Calamy  went  throu^  a  coarse  of 
philosophy  under  De  Vries ;  civil  law  with  Van  der  Moyden ;  cne 
□pcm  "Sophodes"  under  Grerin^  and  another  under  Grevios  on 
"PufiendcHTs  Introduction  to  History."  He  was  also  under 
Witsius  for  theology,  and  attended  lectures  of  three  other  Professors 
of  IHvinity.  Calamy  gjves  many  interesting  details  as  to  his  life  and 
studies  in  Holland,  where  he  remained  three  years.  In  1691  be 
returned  to  England,  and  proceeded  to  Oxford  for  the  purpose  of 
studying  there. 

We  have  followed  the  course  of  his  education — up  to  this  point — 
through  his  list  of  schools  and  teachers.  They  were  prevailingly 
Nonconformist  in  tendency.  Nothing  couM  be  better  indicative  of 
the  (^ten-mindedness  of  Calamy,  and  indeed  kA  his  trainers,  than 
the  &ct  that  when  he  gets  to  Oxford  he  writes :  ''  I  had  it  now 
particularly  imder  consideration  whether  I  should  determine  for 
conformity  or  non-conf<ninity.'' 

The  influences  at  Oxford  were  distinctly  favourable  to  an  in- 
clination towards  the  Chorch  of  England.  Calamy  himself  says : 
"  I  was  entertained  from  day  to  day  with  what  tended  to  give  any 
man  the  best  ofunion  of  the  Church  by  law  established.  I  was  a 
witness  of  her  learning,  wealth,  grandeur,  and  splendour.  I  was 
treated  by  the  gentlemen  of  the  University  with  all  imaginable 
civility.    I  heard  their  sermons,  and  frequently  attended  their  public 


238 


The  Gentleman  s  Magazifie, 


lectures  and  academical  exercises.  I  was  Tree  in  conversation  as 
opportunities  oflTered ;  and  was  oRen  argued  with  about  consorting 
vith  such  a  despicable,  such  an  unsociable  sort  of  people  as  the 
Nonconform isls  were  represented.  But  I  fook  all  occasions  to 
express  my  hearty  respect  and  value  for  real  worth  wherever  I  eould 
meet  with  if.**  Cabmy  ^o^v  carefully  studied  the  Bible,  read  Church 
History,  some  of  the  Early  Fathers,  and  controversy  centred  about 
Ignatius's  "  Six  Epistles  " ;  Chilli  ngworth's  *'  Religion  of  Protestants, 
a  Safe  Way  to  Salvation  "  ;  Hooker's  "  Eight  Books  of  Ecclesiastical 
Polity."    Later,  too,  he  read  Jeremy  Taylor's  "  Ductor  Dubitantiura," 

Calamy,  at  any  rate,  was  in  earnest  in  his  search  for  truth. 
Perhaps  the  tendency  of  his  education  and  anteccdenUi  pre- 
disposed him  ;  but  his  attitude  in  his  search  was  truly  admirable. 
He  "determined"  for  Nonconformity.  "I,  at  the  same  time, 
resolved  that  I  would  ever  study  the  things  that  made  for  peace  and 
mutual  edification,  and  do  all  that  in  me  lay  to  promote  a  catliotic 
spirit  and  brotherly  love,  and  avoid,  as  much  as  I  was  able,  nanow- 
ncss,  bitterness,  wrath,  clamour,  and  evil  speaking,  and  such-like 
fruits  of  the  flesh,  together  with  giving  oflcnce  to  any  in  the  use  of 
my  liberty  :  '  Keeping  the  unity  of  the  spirit  in  the  bond  of  peace,* 
Thus  doing,  I  thought  I  could  ntrver  be  justly  charged  with  that 
uncbaritableness  and  disa^ection  which  passes  in  Scripture  under 
the  name  of '  schism.*" 

If  we  consider  the  educational  influences  under  which  Calamy 
was  brought  up,  it  seems  safer  to  term  them  Puritanic  in  the  old 
sense  of  the  term  rather  than  Nonconformist  in  the  modem  sense. 
Taught  by  his  mother,  "the  good  old  Mr.  Lye,"  by  Mr.  Nelson 
(the  church  curate),  by  Mr.  Vewel,  Mr.  Tatnal,  Mr.  DooUitle,  at 
Merchant  Taylors'  under  Mr.  Hartcliff,  by  Mr.  Walton,  and  by  Mr. 
Samuel  Cradock,  there  is  a  charming  division  of  influence  bet^veen 
Church  and  Dissent,  provided  always  that  the  pieiistic  element  was 
retained.  Even  in  his  University  life,  at  Utrecht  and  at  Oxford,  he 
passed  his  time  in  and  out  amongst  both  sides  ^"d,  when  he  finally 
decides  for  Nonconformity,  more  impressive  than  his  actual  choice 
is  his  spirit  of  tolerance  and  admiration  for  what  he  admits  to  be 
good  in  the  religious  organisation  outside  of  which  he  elects  to  take 
his  stand. 

In  taking  the  case  of  Edmund  Calamy  for  illustration,  ve  ore 
inclined  to  believe  that  it  is  a  t)*pical  case. 

It  is  not  easy  always  to  trace  with  the  same  closeness  of  detail  the 
course  of  thcschool-trianing  of  early  Nonconformists,  for  the  schools 
of  the  Nonconformists  were  mercilessly  harried  out  of  enslcnce,  or 


The  Education  of  the  Early  Nonconformists,    239 

changed  from  one  place  to  another,  so  as  to  make  their  tracing  diHi- 
cult.  There  arc  sufficienl  indications  of  this  persecution  in  the  sketch 
given  by  Calamy.  But  the  best  features  of  a  liberal  education  were 
keenly  sought  after  by  Puritanic  families  of  the  Calamy  class.  It  was 
not  merely  a  liberal  education  of  the  old  grammar-school  type — 
founded  upon  a  severe  course  in  the  reading  of  classical  authors,  in 
theme-writing,  and  endless  imitation  of  Cicero  and  Terence — but  an 
education  which,  in  the  end,  brought  the  man  to  an  eager  desire  for 
theological  truth»  and  a  willingness  to  take  untold  pains  in  its  in- 
vestigation, together  with  a  spirit  of  charity  which  could  bless  and 
wish  god-spccd  to  those  who  differed  from  him  in  opinion,  as  long 
as  he  believed  that  those  differing  from  him  were  sincere  and  right- 
hearted. 

It  is  not  possible,  in  the  limits  of  this  article,  to  sketch  in  detail 
the  history  of  Dissenters*  academics.  But  it  is  desirable  to  point 
out  the  spirit  of  the  liberal  education  which  went  on  in  them.  The 
first  was  established  by  Richard  Frankland,  who  is  said  to  have  been 
nominated  by  Cromwell  as  vice-president  of  the  college  which  the 
Protector  intended  to  establish  at  Durham.  This,  however,  was  not 
carried  out,  and  on  the  accession  of  Charles  II.  and  the  passing  of 
the  Act  of  Uniformity,  Frankland  declined  to  conform,  and  was  duly 
ejected.  He  started  an  academy,  to  which  some  of  the  gentry  sent 
their  sons,  instead  of  sending  them  to  the  Universities,  and  along 
with  these  he  educated  others  for  the  ministry.  He  illustrates  well 
the  determined  spirit  in  which  these  Puritanic  teachers  persisted 
in  their  work.  He  began  his  academy  at  Rathmel,  in  Yorkshire. 
Dri\*en  by  the  implacable  persecution  of  those  in  auth(»ity  from 
Rathmel,  he  ttansferred  his  academy  fir^t  to  Natland,  near  Kendal ; 
thence  to  Dawsonfield,  in  Westmorland  ;  thence  to  Halburrow,  in 
Lancashire ;  tlience  to  Calton,  in  Craven,  in  Yorkshire ;  thence  to 
Attercliff,  near  Sheffield ;  finally,  back  again  to  Rathmel.  "  The 
good  man's  life  was  a  pilgrimage  indeed,  in  external  changes  as  well 
as  in  the  inward  temper  of  his  mind  ;  and  the  students,  as  well  as 
the  tutor,  were  disciples  of  the  cross.  .  .  .  Scarcely  a  year  elapsed, 
from  16S8  till  his  death,  in  which  he  did  not  suffer  trouble  for 
keeping  an  academy  and  training  up  young  men  for  the  dissenting 
ministry." '  "  He  was  a  man  of  great  moderation,"  says  Calamy,  in 
the  Nonconformists'  Memorial. 

In  the  "  Continuation  of  the  Account  of  the  Ejected  Ministers," 
by  Calamy  (vol.  l  pp.  » 77-97),  is  given  Cliarles  Morton's  "  Viodi- 

*  BogtK  lad  BctinctI,  ilitUry  eftht  Ditttnttts^  vol  i.  p.  999, 


240 


The  Gentiematts  Magazine. 


cation  of  Himself  and  BTethren»  being  reflected  upon  for  teaching 
University  learning."  This  is  the  Charles  Morton  who  wished  to  take 
Calamy  with  him  to  America.  Speaking  of  the  objection  that  some 
Nonconformists  sent  their  sons  to  the  Universities  and  some  to  the 
Academies,  so  evidently  [all  were  not  of  the  same  mind,  Morton 
disclaims  all  responsibility  for  those  whose  consciences  would  allow 
Ihcm  to  be  so  inconsistent  as  to  partake  of  a  University  education  at 
the  cost  of  professing  ecclesiastical  views  which  they  did  not  really 
believe.  But  he  adds  :  "  I  shall  conclude,  heartily  wishing  and 
praying  that  there  may  be  an  happy  end  of  these  divisions,  and  that 
all  men  would  unite  in  being  conformists  to  the  infallible  and 
indispensable  rule,  the  pure  Word  of  God." 

Mr.  Samuel  Cradock,whoalsowrotea"Vindication  of  Academy- 
Teacliing,"also  appears  in  the  "  Continuation  "  as  a  representative  of 
*'  moderation."  ^  Mr,  Bury,  who  preached  the  funeral  sermon,  says 
of  him  ;  "  His  temper  was  truly  catholic.  He  \-alued  every  man  for 
his  goodness,  and  was  valued  by  all  that  were  truly  good,  and  not 
abandoned  to  parties  or  schismatical  principles  on  one  side  or  other." 
Samuel  Palmer,  in  his  "  Defence  of  ihc  Dissenters'  Education  in 
their  Private  Academies"  (1703),  gives  his  testimony  as  to  his  old 
tutor  at  one  of  these  academies  :  "  1  never  beard  him  make  one  un- 
handsome reflection  on  the  Church  of  England,  though  I  know  he 
abhorred  the  profane  faction  that  confidently  assume  that  honour- 
able name ;  but  have  heard  bim  speak  with  that  high  character 
of  the  piety,  virtue,  and  learning  of  my  Lord  of  London  as  ex- 
ceeds all  that  the  Episcopal  clergy  themselves  usually  speak  of  that 
prelate." 

These  passages  will  be  sufficient  to  show  the  attitude  of  the 
Nonconformists  in  the  Nonconformists'  academies  of  Calamy's 
times  towards  the  Church.  It  represents,  indeed,  a  detachment 
from  the  Church  ecclesiastically  \  but  in  spite  of  persecution,  un- 
deniably bitter  and  unjustified,  there  is  still  the  sympathy  towards 
so  "venerable  a  body"  which  at  least  provided  an  educational 
element  in  the  academy  of  great  consequence  for  the  intellectual 
discipline  of  the  students.  The  great  German  educational  philosopher, 
Herbart,  says  that  education  consists  in  its  materia),  not  merely  in 
the  acquisition  of  knowledge  through  instruction  ;  but  he  insists  that 
equally  necessary  is  the  instruction  which  widens  the  sympalhics  and 
helps  men  better  to  understand  one  another.  Itappears  dear  that  with 
these  early  Nonconformists — if  Calamy's  is  a  typical  case,  as  we  believe 
it  is,  of  the  representative  early  Nonconformist  academies— even 

'  Vol  U.  p  735. 


Tk^  EducaiioH  of  the  Early  Nonconfomttsts.    241 

ijte  theological  studies  were  conducted  in  a  way  which  broadened 
the  sympathies  of  the  students,  and  helped  their  education  away  from 
that  narrowness  of  dognutic  assertion  which  has  regard  to  the  intel- 
lectual position  of  opponents. 

This  position  of  attempting  to  undcn>tand  points  of  view  different 
from  one's  own  seems  to  us  to  mark  a  new  era  in  theological  education, 
and  in  education  generally.  It  is  comparable,  politically}  to  the  New 
EnglanJcrs,  who,  thoUfjh  bound  to  oppose  the  mother -country,  felt 
a  great  love  and  leaning  even  to  those  who  were  doing  them  so  great 
a  wrong  in  the  attack  on  their  political  rights  and  freedom.  And  the 
constant  good  feeling  between  America  and  England,  in  spite  of  all 
the  cruel  hardships  which  have  had  to  be  borne,  as  shown  in  the 
best  minds  and  hearts  of  both  nations,  is  paralleled  in  the  altitude  of 
the  cultured  Nonconformists  of  the  academies  to  the  old  Church 
from  which,  for  conscience'  sake  only,  they  liad  to  shut  themselves 
off.  This  giowth  of  sympalliy,  combined  with  knowledge,  isi  the 
academies  is  undoubtedly  connected  historically  with  the  finest 
spirit  of  tlie  modem  demand  for  freedom  of  thought  in  all  matters  of 
speculative  inquiry. 

So  far  as  to  the  relation  of  Nonconformist  education  to  the 
development  of  inquiry,  at  once  critical  and  sympathetic,  to  standing 
institutions.  It  is  the  inculcation  through  instruction  of  what 
Herbart  calls  sympathy.  Some  account  f^hould  be  added  as  to  the 
material  of  knowledge  given  in  these  academies. 

Boguc  and  Bennett,  in  their  "  History  of  Dissenters,"  state  the 
ordinary  curriculum  as  being:  Greek  and  Latin  classics,  logic, 
metaphysics,  natural  and  moral  philosophy,  rhetoric,  theology,  and 
biblical  criticism.  Palmer,  in  his  "Defence  of  the  Academies," 
states  that  the  course  of  training  \n  the  academies  was  ordinarily 
for  five  years.  The  text-books  used  by  Mr.  James  Owen  ^  in  his 
n^acadcmy  at  Shrewsbury  were : — 

In  logic,  Burgersdicius,  Hereboord,  Ramus;  in  metaphysics, 
Fromcnius,  Eustachius,  Baronius  ;  in  phpics,  I^  Clerc,  Du  Hamcl ; 
in  geometry,  Tardic's  Elements,  Euclid  \  in  astronomy,  Gassendus ; 
in  chronology.  Strauchius ;  in  ecclesiastical  history,  Spanhemius ;  in 
^theology,  Wollcbius.  A  very  interesting  and  complete  account  of 
he  work  of  an  academy  is  given  by  Palmer  * : — 

"  It  was  our  custom  to  have  lectures  appointed  to  certain  times, 
and  we  began  the  morning  with  logic  We  read  Hereboord,  which 
is  the  same  as  is  generally  read  at  Cambridge.    The  next  superior 

1  Bogoe  and  Benoctl,  t.  345* 
■  Qaot«d  by  Soguc  aad  Bennett,  [.  34J. 
VOL.  CCXCl.     KO.  2049.  8 


242 


The  Gentlemans  Magazine, 


class  read  metaphysics,  of  which  Fromcnius's  Synopsis  was  our 
manual,  and,  by  directions  of  our  tutor,  wc  were  assisted  in  our 
chambers  by  Baronius,  Suarez,  and  Colbert.  Ethics  was  our  next 
study;  and  our  system — Hereboord  in  reading,  which  our  tutor 
recommended  to  our  meditation,  Dr.  Henry  More,  Marcus  Antonius 
Epictetus,  with  the  Comments  of  Arrian  and  Simplicius  and  the 
morals  of  Solomon,  and,  under  this  head,  the  moral  works  of  the 
great  Puffendorf.  The  highest  class  was  engaged  in  natural 
philosophy,  of  which  Le  Clerc  was  our  system,  whom  we  compared 
with  the  ancients  and  with  other  moderns,  as  Aristotle,  Des  Cartes, 
Colbert,  Staire,  &c,  We  disputed,  every  other  day,  in  Ijtin,  upon 
the  several  philosophical  controversies,  and  as  these  lectures  were 
read  off,  some  time  was  set  apart  to  introduce  rhetoric,  in  which 
that  short  piece  of  John  Gerard  Vossius  was  used  in  the  school,  but 
in  our  chambers  were  assisted  by  his  larger  volume,  Aristotle,  and 
Tully,  '  De  Oratore.'  These  exercises  were  all  performed  every 
morning,  except  that  on  Mondays  we  added,  as  a  divine  lecture, 
some  of  Buchanan's  Psalms,  the  finest  of  the  kind,  both  for  purity  of 
language  and  exact  sense  of  the  original ;  and  on  Saturdays  all  the 
superior  classes  declaimed  by  turns,  four  and  four,  on  some  noble 
and  useful  subject,  such  as  '  De  pace,'  '  Logicane  magis  inserviat 
CKteris  disciplinis  an  rhetorics,'  'Dcconnubto  virtutis  cum  doctrina,' 
itc,  and  I  can  say  that  these  orations  were,  for  the  most  part,  of 
uncommon  eloquence,  purity  of  style,  and  manly  and  judicious 
composure. 

"After  dinner,  our  work  Ijegan  by  reading  some  one  of  the 
Greek  or  Latin  historians,  orators,  or  poets,  of  which,  first,  I 
remember  Sallust,,  Quintius  Curtius,  Justin,  and  Paterculus ;  of  the 
second,  Demosthenes,  Tully,  and  Isocrates'  '  Select  Orations ' ;  and 
of  the  last,  Homer,  Virgil,  Juvenal,  Persius,  and  Horace.  This 
reading  was  the  finest  and  most  delightful  to  young  gcnllemen  of 
all  others,  because  it  was  not  in  the  pedantic  method  of  common 
schools  ;  but  the  delicacy  of  our  tutor's  criticisms,  his  exact  descrip- 
tion of  persons,  terms,  and  places,  illustrated  by  referring  to  Rosin 
and  other  antiquarians,  and  his  just  application  of  the  morals,  made 
such  a  lasting  impression  as  rendered  all  our  other  studies  more  facile. 
In  geography  we  read  *  Dionysii  Pcriegcsis '  compared  with  Cluverius, 
which  at  this  lecture  always  lay  upon  the  table. 

*'  Mondays  and  Fridays  we  read  divinity,  of  which  the  first  lecture 
was  always  in  the  Greek  Testament,  and  it  was  our  custom  o  go 
through  it  once  a  year ;  we  seldom  read  less  than  six  or  seven 
chapters,  and  this  was  done  with  the  greatest  accuracy.     We  were 


The  Education  of  the  Early  Nonconformists.   243 

obliged  to  give  the  most  curious  etymons,  and  were  assisted  with 
the  Synopsis  Criticoram,  Martinius,  Favorinus,  and  Hesychius's 
lexicons,  and  it  was  expected  that  the  sacred  geography  and 
chronology  should  be  particularly  observed  and  answered  too,  at 
demand,  of  which  I  never  knew  my  tutor  sparing.  The  other 
divinity  lecture  was  on  Synopsis  Ptirioris  Theologias,  as  very  accurate 
and  short ;  we  were  advised  to  read  by  ourselves  the  more  large 
pieces  of  Turretine,  Theses  Salmurienses,  Baxter's  Methodus 
Thcologiffi,  and  Archbishop  Usher's,  and,  on  particular  contro- 
versies, many  excellent  authors,  as,  on  original  sin,  PlacKus,  and 
Barlow,  *  De  Natura  Mali ' ;  on  grace  and  free-will,  Rutherford, 
Strangius,  and  Amyraldus  ;  on  the  Popish  controversy,  Amesius 
Bellarminus  £nervatus>  and  the  modern  disputes  during  the  reign  of 
King  James;  on  Episcopacy,  Altare  Damaccnum,  Bishop  Hall,  and 
Mr.  Baxter ;  Bishop  Stillingfleet's  Irenicum,  Dr.  Owen  and  Ruther- 
ford ;  and  for  practical  divinity,  Baxter,  Tillotson,  Chamock — and, 
in  a  word^  the  btst  books  of  the  Episcopalian^  Pttshyierian,  and 
Independent  divines  were  in  their  order  recommended,  and  con- 
stantly used  by  those  of  us  who  were  able  to  procure  them  ;  and  ail 
or  most  of  them,  I  can  affirm,  were  the  study  of  all  the  pupils." 

Boguc  and  Bennett  also  give  the  testimony  of  Mr.  Seeker  (in  a 
letter  to  Dr.  Isaac  Watts)  as  to  subjects  and  methods  pursued  at 
the  Gloucester  academy  of  Mr.  Jones.  Seeker's  letter  confirms  the 
liberal  nature  of  the  academy's  courses. 

It  will  thus  be  seen  that  these  old  Nonconformist  academies 
were  very  much  in  the  position  of  the  newer  Universities  of  the 
present  day.  They  ventured  to  introduce  new  studies  and  new 
methods ;  but  they  were  largely  bound  by  the  old  traditions  whenever 
these  seemed  to  be  of  valid  significance  for  general  culture.  Episco- 
palian classical  writings  were  welcomed  even  in  these  Nonconformist 
theological  seminaries,  if  ibey  brought  forward  material  for  theological 
culture.  These  institutions  may  have  been  schismatic  in  relation  to 
the  Church,  but  they  were  not  sectarian  in  their  spirit.  And  the 
scienti6c  attitude  of  free  inquiry  thus  found  its  way  into  institutions 
for  theological  studies.  Men  like  Calamy,  with  broad  outlook  on 
life,  could  go  through  these  academics  and  at  the  end  of  their  course 
preserve  an  open  mind— and  it  was  only  after  further  study  they 
*'  determined  "  for  or  against  Episcopalianism. 

It  is  difficult  to  say  how  many  of  these  academies  there  were  in 
the  early  days  of  Nonconformity.  Bogue  and  Bennett  mention 
Taunton,  Shrewsbury,  Hoxlon  Square  (London),  Newington  Green, 
Exeter,   Bridgwater,   Tiverton,   Colyton,   Gloucester,    Tewkesbury, 

S2 


A 


J 


244 


Tke  Gentleman  s  MagaztTte. 


Manchester,  Coventry- ;  and  tempcrary  academies  at  Suiby  (North- 
amptonshire), Netllebed  (Oxfordshire),  Wickhambrook  (SufTolk), 
Islington,  Saffron  Walden,  Pinner,  Uighgate,  Dartmouth,  Lincoln, 
Nottingham,  Stourbridge,  and  at  Llangynwydd  In  Glamorganshire. 
There  are  suggestions  of  others,  but  this  list  is  sufficient  to  show 
that  scholarly  Nonconformity  liad  to  supply  from  within  the  place 
of  the  Universities  for  those  Nonconformists  who  were  unwilling  for 
ihcir  sons  to  subscribe  the  tests,  with  which  they  did  not  intellectually 
agree.  And  the  evidence  seems  to  suggest  that  Calaroy  is  a  typical 
early  Nonconformist  of  the  cultured  type. 

Let  me  repeat  the  words  of  Calamy  describing  the  spirit  of  his 
father's  method  of  training — which  I  suggest  is  on  excellent  state- 
ment of  the  early  Nonconformist  attitude  towards  religious  educa- 
tion : — 

"  I  was  from  my  infancy  carefully  instructed  in  the  common 
Christian  principles  of  truth  and  duty,  so  in  matters  of  diflerence 
among  professing  Christians  I  had  moderation  instilled  into  me 
from  my  very  cradle.  Never  did  I  hear  my  father  inveigh  against 
those  tliat  officiated  in  the  public  churches,  nor  did  he  attempt  to 
create  in  me  any  prejudices  against  them  or  their  way ;  but  he  took 
all  occasions  that  offered  to  declare  against  heat  and  rancour  on  all 
sides,  and  for  loving  all  such  as  were  truly  pious,  and  bore  the 
image  of  God  upon  them,  whatsoever  their  particular  sentiments 
might  be." 

When  the  history  of  English  education  comes  to  be  written,  it 
will  be  surely  found  that  this  spirit  of  the  early  Nonconformist 
academies  was  a  great  formative  influence,  and  has  had  effects 
not  sufHciently  recognised  upon  the  course  of  the  history  of  our 
national  culture. 

FOSTER  WATSON. 


HYDERABAD:    A    CHAPTER    OF 
ANCIENT   HISTORY. 


Kot  uident  in  point  of  time,  for  tbe  scene  I  am  about  to  recall  Es  Uitle  more 
ihon  thirty  yexn  old ;  bat  compuc  it  with  the  Hyderabad  of  the  present  day,  and 
you  will  see  it  has  some  cl&Lm  to  be  so  called. 


U^ 


I 
I 


10  the  year  1868  the  British  representative  (called  the 
Resident)  at  the  Court  of  the  Nizam  and  his  suite,  when 
paying  a  visit  to  His  Highness,  used  to  take  off  their  shoes  in  an  ante- 
room, struggle  through  a  motley  crowd  of  hangers-on  into  the  Hall 
of  Audience  in  stockinged  feet»  and  seat  themselves  on  the  floor  to 
the  left  of  the  Musnud,  on  which,  sitting  motionless  like  a  sphinx, 
with  eyes  fixed  on  vacancy  that  refused  to  meet  those  of  his  visitors, 
the  6rst  of  our  Indian  feudatorj'  princes  awaited  their  coming.  To 
the  right  of  the  Musnud — a  simple  contrivance  of  cushions  co\"ered 
in  white  cotton  on  a  raised  pbtform — with  their  feet  tucked  under 
them,  their  hands  with  joined  palms  in  prayerful  attitude,  knelt  or 
sat  on  their  heels  the  Dewan  (or  Prime  Minister)  and  chief  nobles  of 
Ihe  Court;  while  behind  the  Nizam  knelt  Shams -ul-umra,  Amir-i- 
Kabir,  holding  a  tuft  of  peacock  feathers  secured  in  a  long  socket^ 
which  every  now  and  then  he  waved  slowly  over  the  royal  turban, 
thereby  denoting  that  it  was  the  privilege  of  the  Premier  noble  to 
guard  his  chief  from  the  intrusive  fly  or  mosquito. 

From  a  British  point  of  view  the  ceremony  was  anything  but 
impressive.  The  Nizam,  whose  fair  skin  and  grey  eyes  recalled  his 
Mongol  origin,  had  at  one  time  been  a  tall,  fine  man,  with  a  taste  for 
hunting  and  active  habits,  which  disappeared  soon  after  his  elevation 
to  the  Musnud,  it  being  a  tradition  of  office  that  no  man  was  worlliy 
to  approach  the  Presence  save  with  bowed  head  and  downcast  eyes, 
and  that  the  Presence  was  of  such  exalted  dignity  it  should  not  make 
itself  cheap  by  leaving  the  precincts  of  its  own  palace  too  often, 
dthcr  on  horse  or  elephant  or  in  a  carriage.  When  it  did  leave 
those  precincts  and  passed  tlirough  the  city  on  very  rare  occasioni 
«a  edict  went  forth  commanding  His  Highness's  subjects  to  descend 


246 


The  Genileman's  Magazine. 


to  the  ground  floor  of  their  dwellings  as  he  passed,  so  that  the  sacri- 
lege of  anyone  being  on  a  higher  level  than  the  Sun  of  the  Universe, 
the  Pole  Star  of  the  Firmament,  &c.,  &c.,  might  be  avoided.     No 
wonder  that  when,  as  one  of  the  Resident's  Assistants,  I  first  set  eyes 
on  the  Presence  it  was  a  mountain  of  flesh.    Yet  there  was  no  mis- 
taking its  dignity.    Afzut-ud-doulah  looked  a  king,  while  he  posed  as 
a  god.    What  he  was  like  when  he  stood  up  1  cannot  say ;  in  my  day 
Englishmen  never  ever  saw  him  on  his  feet ;  that  was  a  privilege,  if 
report  spoke  truly,  reserved  only  for  fiddlers  and  dancing  girls,  who 
saw  more  of  the  Presence  than  anyone  else-     It  is  the  misfortune  of 
princes  to  be  nursed  on  adulation ;  this  one,  alas  !  had  fattened  on 
the  diet  to  such  extent  that  he  honestly  believed  himself  far  above 
the  level  of  humanity,  bound  to  look  down  on  all  round  him.     He 
would  call  his  Dewan  a  dog,  not  out  of  anger,  but  merely  because 
no  one  else  dare  treat  the  second  man  in  his  kingdom  with  anything 
but  respect.     The  gulf  between  an  Eastern  potentate  and  his  Minister 
is  always  immense ;  nowhere  within  the  bounds  of  civilisation  could 
it  have  been  wider  than  at   Hyderabad  in  those  days.     Yet  even 
AfJEul-ud-doulah  must  have  known  that  his  Dewan,  Sir  Salar  Jung, 
had  rendered  priceless  service  to  the  State,  and  was  one  of  nature's 
noblemen  to  boot.     The  favour  with  which  he  was  regarded  by  the 
British  Government,  the  high  esteem  in  which  he  was  held  by  all 
classes,  accentuated,  no  doubt,  his  master's  disfavour;  more  especially 
as  that  master's  feelings  towards  the  Paramount  Power  were  inwardly, 
it  was  sometimes  thought,  less  imbued  with  loyalty  than  his  outward 
policy.     The  latter  had  been  framed  on  the  counsels  of  Sir  Salar 
Jung  and  the  leading  nobles,  and  bad  brought  him  nch  reward  in  the 
dark  days  of  the  Mutiny,  when  Hyderabad  refused  to  be  led  astray; 
yet  the   Nizam   had   never  shown   cordiality  towards  the  British 
Residency  or  its  supporters— possibly  because  he  did  not  wish  to 
acloinwledge  too  openly  the  source  of  his  dignity  and  power,  and  pre- 
ferred the  barbaric  isolation  which  he  conceived  it  to  be  his  duly  as 
head  of  the  State  to  maintain  unimpaired  from  the  hands  of  his  pre- 
decessors.    His  view  of  past  history  dwelt,  as  far  as  possible^  on  the 
relations  of  his  Court  towards  the  pioneers  of  England  in  the  East 
a  century  ago ;  uneducated  and  not  too  intelligent,  he  remained 
imbedded  in  a  cocoon  of  ignorance  and  tradition  from  which  he  bad 
no  desire   to   emerge.     One   can   understand,    and  not   without 
iympathy,  the  delight  he  must  have  experienced  in  receiving  an 
envoy  from  the  Queen  in  a  manner  more  befitting  the  past  than  the 
present ;  a  manner  which  even  an  enlightened  and  patriotic  Minister  like 
Sir  Salar  Jung  was  anxioui  to  uphold,  because  it  marked  a  privilego 


Hyderabad :  a  Chapter  of  Ancient  History.  247 

enjoyed  b}'  no  other  feudatory  prince  in  India.  For  a  few  moments 
it  placed  the  Nizam  on  a  level  with  the  then  independent  King  of 
Ava.  It  was  amusing  to  note  how  His  Highncss.would  maintain  this 
high  level  by  restricting  his  interview  with  the  Resident  to  a  few  slow 
sentences,  delivered  with  an  impassive  countenance.  After  the 
Court  Munshi,  standing  up,  had  read  out  in  sonorous  Persian  the 
Viceroy's  Kharita  deputing  the  Resident  by  name  to  be  his  repre- 
sentative at  tlie  Nizam's  Court,  and  commending  him  to  his  "honoured 
and  valued  friend,"  &c.,  tlic  officer  so  accredited  would  express  his 
pleasure  at  having  at  length  obtained  the  desire  of  his  heart  in  being 
deputed  to  Hyderabad,  of  whose  renown  he  tiad  often  heard,  and 
also  his  wish  to  avail  himself  of  every  opportunity  to  cement  the 
relations  of  amity  and  concord  which  had  so  long  subsisted  between 
Her  Majesty's  Government  and  that  of  her  faithful  Ally.  If  the 
Nizam  were  in  a  good  humour  he  might  respond  by  giving  the 
speaker  a  word  of  personal  welcome,  as  brief  as  possible;  but 
generally  he  put  aside  verbiage  of  that  kind  as  unnecessary.  He 
would  inquire  first  after  the  health  of  Her  Alajcsty,  then  as  to  the 
Viceroy's  health,  after  a  long  pause :  another  pause  would  prelude  a 
remark  that  he  understood  the  Viceroy  had  gone  to  the  Hills  for 
cliange  of^r  j  a  third  would  introduce  an  observation  as  to  the  air  of 
the  Hills  being  cold.  Short  sentences  and  long  pauses  are  in  accord- 
ance  with  Oriental  etiquette  at  fuU-dress  Durbars,  and  conduce  to 
dignity ;  so,  having  referred  to  the  Queen  and  Viceroy,  and  not  caring 
to  descend  to  lower  topics,  His  Highness  would  give  the  sign  for 
distribution  of  a//ar  and /an,  a  ceremony  that  denoted  the  termina- 
tion of  the  Durbar  and  brought  the  Resident  and  His  suite  to  their 
feet  again.  Then  we  filed  out  again,  each  salaaming  as  we  [xisscd  in 
front  of  His  Highness  at  a  distance  of  several  feet,  scrambled  in 
the  ante-room  for  our  boots,  and  departed,  as  we  came,  on  elephants. 
Some  of  us,  especially  the  General,  his  Slaff,  and  other  military 
officers  from  the  Cantonment  of  Sccunderabad,  who  were  wont  to 
accompany  the  Resident  on  such  occasions,  would  wonder  how  a 
scene  like  this  could  be  enacted  in  the  year  1S68.  And  no  one 
wondered  more  than  Mr.  Charles  Burslem  Saunders,  C.B.,  of  the 
Bengal  Civil  Service,  who  went  to  Hyderabad  that  year  as  Reiident. 
His  retiring  disposition,  kindness  of  heart,  and  unbounded  hospi- 
tality, had  made  him  extremely  popular  wherever  he  had  served;  no 
one  could  have  been  more  aflfablc  or  considerate  towards  rutives  as 
well  as  his  own  countrymen,  or  less  open  (o  the  faintest  suspicion  of 
haukur  or  highhanded  dealing.  His  courage  had  been  tested  in 
tb«  Mutiny,  and  he  had  been  created  C-B.  when  quite  a  young  man 


248 


The  Geniieman's  Magazine, 


after  the  siege  of  Delhi ;  but  no  remembrance  of  these  scenes  was 
ever  allowed  to  influence  his  gentle  guileless  nature,  so  full  of  good- 
will to  all  men,  white  or  hrown,  as  those  who  knew  him  in  the 
Punjab,  Berar,  Mysore,  and  Hyderabad  can  testify.  The  spirit  of 
the  imperial  race  within  him  kicked,  however,  at  the  idea  of  Kngllsb 
officers  being  obliged  to  sit  shoeless  on  the  floor  in  the  presence  of 
any  tributary  prince  ;  he  resented  the  ceremonial  just  described  as  a 
personal  indignity  as  well  as  a  slight  to  his  Government,  and  seemed 
to  derive  little  consolation  from  the  view  that  old  customs  die  hard, 
and  that  the  survival  of  this  one  during  and  since  the  time  of  the  all- 
compelling  Dalhousie  must  indicate  the  existence  of  reasons  at  least 
entitled  to  respect.  It  had  lived  to  be  an  anachronism,  no  doubt, 
through  the  tenderness  of  the  Paramount  Power  towards  old 
traditions  ;  but  the  difl^culty  of  getting  rid  of  it  during  the  lifetime  of 
a  Nizam  who  had  stood  by  that  Power  in  the  Mutiny,  and  had  been 
rewarded  in  consequence,  was  often  lost  sight  of  by  its  critics.  To 
understand  the  posiuon  further,  it  must  be  remembered  that  at  that 
lime  Hyderabad,  a  hotbed  of  intrigues  of  various  kinds,  an  Atsatia 
for  all  who  plotted  against  law  and  order,  offered  an  asylum  to 
ruflians  wanted  by  the  police  all  over  British  India,  with  which  it  was 
still  unconnected  by  rail ;  and  our  Government  was  trying  to 
strengthen  the  hands  of  a  Minister  who  had  already  done  much  to 
improve  its  administration.  Any  attempt  to  diminish  what  the 
Nizam  conceived  to  be  his  dignity  would  certainly  have  weakened 
the  authority  of  Sir  Salar  Jung,  already  regarded  by  his  master  with 
jealousy  and  suspicion  on  account  of  his  supposed  subserviency  to 
British  interests. 

On  the  26th  February,  1869,  I  was  sitting  with  Mr.  Saunders, 
when  a  mounted  orderly  galloped  up  to  the  Residency  with  a  letter 
from  the  Minister,  announcing  the  startling  intelligence  of  tlie  death 
of  the  Nizam.  His  Highness,  though  not  forty-five  years  of  age, 
had  long  been  in  bad  health,  afflicted  by  a  disease  which,  it  was  said, 
would  have  yielded  to  the  knife  of  a  skilful  English  surgeon,  had  he 
cared  to  consult  one.  It  was  his  way,  however,  to  be  treated  only  by 
native  hakttms  or  doctors,  who  dared  not,  and  would  not  hnve  been 
aIIo\\-ed  had  they  dared,  to  resort  lo  other  remedies  than  medicines 
which  they  were  obliged  to  swallow  themselves  when  prescribing  for 
the  royal  patient,  in  whose  presence  two  or  three  doses  would  of^cn 
be  made  up,  one  of  which  the  prescriber  had  to  take  himself  before 
Uie  other  reached  the  lips  of  the  Nizam.  Apart  from  the  distrust 
implied  by  this  Oriental  method,  the  responsibility  of  advising  and 
prescribing  for  a  personage  of  such  exalted  rank  and  power  was 


Hyderabad:  a  Chapter  of  Ancient  History.  249 


enoogh  to  make  the  most  competent  hakeem  hesitate  to  incur  the 
least  risk ;  so  temporary  relief  was  all  they  aimed  at,  and  no  wonder. 
Ttie  cause  of  death,  however,  was,  we  learned  afterwards,  an  attack  of 
fever,  which  His  Highness  insisted  on  treating  in  a  manner  not 
ordered  by  his  physicians,  and  which  no  one  anticipated  for  a 
moment  would  be  fatal.  Hence  its  result  look  the  Minister  and 
Resident  completely  by  surprise.  The  latter  at  once  sent  a  reply 
to  say  he  would  call  on  the  former,  and  ordered  his  carriage  for  that 
purpose ;  but  before  he  started  a  message  from  Sir  Salar  Jung  begged 
him  to  delay  lus  visit,  as  the  city  was  in  an  uproar,  and  a  party  of 
Arabs  (in  those  days  a  considerable  faction,  remarkable  for  their 
turbulence)  had  taken  possession  of  the  bridge  which  guarded  the 
entrance  to  it,  and  would  let  no  Englishman  pass.  In  the  course 
of  an  hour  or  so,  Sir  Salar  Jung  had  cleared  away  this  obstacle,  and 
Mr.  Saunders  was  soon  able  to  confer  with  him  in  his  palace,  about 
a  mile  and  a  half  from  the  Residency,  as  to  the  steps  to  be  taken. 
All  that  day  the  uproar  continued,  fomented  by  rumours,  spread 
abroad  by  disaffected  [Arsons,  that  the  British  Government  would 
annex  the  Stale  ;  till,  towards  the  evening,  the  Resident  deemed  it 
prudent  to  authorise  the  issue  of  a  proclamation  that  the  Govcrnratnt 
of  India  would  recognise  the  succession  of  the  late  Af^ul-ud-doulah's 
only  son,  a  child  three  years  old.  Then  things  quieted  down,  and 
during  the  next  two  days  the  Dcwan,  the  premier  noble,  and  his 
eldest  son,  who  was  married  to  a  daughter  of  Afzulud-doulah,  met 
Mr.  Saunders  at  the  Residency  in  conference  as  to  the  scheme  of 
administration  to  be  submitted  for  the  approval  and  orders  of  the 
Viceroy,  who  had,  of  course,  Ijeen  informed  by  telegram  of  all  that 
had  occurred. 

It  is  Ihe  custom  on  the  third  day  after  the  demise  of  a  ruling 
chief  for  the  British  representative  to  pay  a  formal  visit  of  condolence 
to  his  successor.  Great  importance  was  attached  to  this  visit  as  an 
act  of  State  sealing  the  recognition  already  proclaimed  of  the  heir  to 
the  Musnud  ;  and  great  was  the  concern  of  Sir  Salar  Jung  and  his 
colleagues  to  hear  at  those  Residency  conferences  that  Mr.  Saunders 
was  bent  on  abolishing  the  old  manner  of  his  reception  by  the  Nizam 
and  introducing  the  custom  of  all  other  Indian  Courts,  which 
allotted  chairs  lo  the  right  in  Durbar  to  all  British  officers,  and  did 
not  oblige  them  to  take  off  their  shoes.  In  vain  the  Minister 
pleaded  for  the  retention  of  the  one  privilege  which  distinguished 
the  Nizam's  Court,  the  first  in  order  of  precedence,  from  others,  and 
urged  that  to  take  it  away  now  at  the  commencement  of  a  minority, 
when  the  young  prince  was  unable  to  say  a  word  on  his  own  behalf. 


250 


The  GefUleman's  Magazine* 


would  reflect  unfavourably  on  the  reputation  of  the  Paramount 
Power,  and  sliU  more  on  his  own,  be  being  joint  guardian  of  the 
prince's  interests.  Mr.  Saunders  stood  firm,  and  declared  that  unless 
the  Viceroy,  to  whom  the  question  had  been  referred,  should  order 
otherwise,  he  must  seize  the  present  opportunity  of  ending  an 
anachronism  which,  if  it  had  any  meaning,  was  derogatory  to  the 
Paramount  Power.  He  pointed  out  at  the  same  time  that  it  was  a 
relic  of  barbarism,  no  Indian  prince  or  subject  being  ever  asked  to 
take  off  his  turban  in  the  presence  of  Her  Majesty ;  and  further, 
that  the  custom  in  question  operated  to  bar  all  intercourse  between 
the  Nizam  and  the  Resident,  whose  advice  should  be  freely  offered 
at  all  limes  to  the  head  of  the  Stale,  who  under  the  new  ngime  to  be 
inaugurated  would  be  educated  to  fulfil  his  duties  according  to  tlio 
requirements  of  modern  civilisation.  Then  Sir  Salar  Jung  played 
his  last  card,  and  said  he  did  not  know  how  he  could  undertake  to 
answer  for  the  safely  of  the  Resident  on  his  journey  to  and  from  the 
Nizam's  palace  if  it  were  known  that  this  a.ncicnt  privilege  was  to  be 
taken  away.  Mr.  Saunders  responded  by  referring  to  what  Lord 
Canning  bad  said  some  years  before,  when  a  shot  had  been  fired  iii 
the  presence  of  Nizam  Afzul-ud-doulah  by  an  unknown  hand  at 
Colonel  Davidson,  or  else  for  the  purpose  of  intimidating  h\rtu 
Rising  to  the  occasion  with  dignity  and  good  sense,  His  Highness 
commanded  his  Minister  to  escort  the  Resident  back  to  the 
Residency — "  His  safely  be  on  your  bead,"  he  added.  The  Viceroy, 
in  noticing  this  incident,  congratulated  His  Highness  on  the  spirit 
he  had  shown,  hying  stress  on  the  fact  that  the  Imperial  Govern- 
ment regarded  the  person  of  its  ambassadors  as  sacred,  and  stating 
tliat  had  the  Resident  been  injured  on  this  occasion  it  was  impossible 
to  say  what  consequences  might  have  ensued,  imperilling  even  the 
independence  of  the  Hyderabad  State.  Mr.  Saunders's  reference  to 
this  letter,  followed  shortly  after  by  a  telegram  from  Lord  Atayo 
(ihcn  Viceroy)  approving  his  proposal,  closed  the  discussion,  and 
there  was  nothing  left  to  the  Mini!>ler  and  his  colleague,  the  Nawnb 
Shams-ul-umra«  but  to  give  effect  to  the  change  in  question. 

On  the  morning  of  the  visit  of  condolence  there  was  a  large 
breakfast  parly  at  the  Residency,  which  included  the  General  and 
other  officers  from  Secunderabad ;  a  troop  of  Horse  Artillery  was 
encamped  in  the  grounds  to  fire  a  salute  in  honour  of  the  young 
prince;  and  for  the  first  time  telegraphic  communication  between  the 
Residency  and  cantonment,  four  miles  disunt,  was  established.  A 
special  significance  attached  to  this  last  arrangement,  made  hurriedly 
in  view  of  the  recent  and  still  seething  comtnouon  in  the  city,  and 


Hyderabad:  a  Chapter  of  Ancient  History,  251 

the  desirability  of  keeping  ihe  Government  of  India  informed  with- 
out delay  of  anything  that  might  occur  at  such  a  time  of  excitement ; 
while  the  difficult)*  referred  to  just  now  of  guaranteeing  the  Resident 
a  safe  return  from  his  visit  lo  the  Nizam  suggested  the  issue  of 
certain  instructions  for  Ihe  guidance  of  the  General  and  First 
Assistant  Resident  before  Mr.  Saunders  started  on  his  journey.    As 
I  was  one  of  the  two  English  officers  who  accompanied  him,  the 
other  being  the  commandant  of  his  escort,  that  journey  is  indelibly 
stamped  on  my  memory.    Oar  two  elephants  waded  slowly  through 
dense  crowds  up  to  the  door  of  the  Nizam's  palace.     Being  on  the 
leading  one,  tn  the  same  howdah  with  Mr.  Saunders,  I  remember 
there  was  not  too  much  room  for  me,  and  that  not  a  hand  was  lifted 
to  salaam  the  Resident  as  he  passed.     The  silence  and  sullenness  of 
the  masses  on  either  hand,  from  which  looked  up  uncouth  Arabs, 
bold  Pathans  (locally  known  as  Rohillas)  and  Hindustanis,  faces 
stamped  with  lawlessness  by  the  side  of  others,  fortunately  more 
numerous,  which  wore  an  aspect  of  docile  indifference,  were  not 
over  pleasant,  more  especially  as  every  man  in  the  mob  carried  arms 
of  some  description.    AH  along  the  line,  particularly  where  side 
streets  and  lanes  abutted  the  main  thoroughfare,  were  posted  State 
oops  and  loj'al  adherents,  who  could  be  relied  on  to  repress  any 
Iden  hntuk.    The  Ministers  had  taken  every  precaution  to  guard 
e  Resident ;  the  only  risk  was  from  the  bullet  of  some  fanatic  or 
secret  enemy— the  common  risk  of  all  persons  in  high  station  every- 
where, though  commoner  in  some  places  than  in  others,  and  in  times 
when  hearts  are  burning  than  when  they  are  cooL     Nevertheless,  it 
iras  a  relief,  not  less  to  Salar  Jung  and  Shams-ul-umra  than  to  the 
Resident,  when  the  day's  ceremony  was  safely  concluded.     It  was 
very  brief.    The  young  Kizam  appeared  in  the  arms  of  a  nurse  to 
hold  his  first  Purbar,  not  without  alarm,  as  was  natural,  at  the  sight 
of  so  unusual  a  concourse  and  his  first  view  of  white  faces.     But  his 
tears  were  soon  dried  by  the  Resident's  modal  and  my  watch  chain 
being  dangled  in  front  of  him,  and  his  being  allowed  to  play  with 
them— an  omen   regarded  as  of  happy  import  by  those  around. 
With  a  few  kind  words  and  smiles  Mr.  Saunders,  after  taking  his 
scat  on  the  right  of  the  child,  soon  closed  the  interview;  the 
Ministers  presented  attar  and  pan^  and  wl-  left  the  palace.     On  our 
return  journey  the  tension  in  the  air  which  had  marked,  or  seemed 
to  mark,  our  previous  progress,  was  sensibly  diminished.    If  it  really 
existed  in  the  imagination  of  more  than  a  few  persons  it  was  probably 
more  due  to  the  rumours  which  had  been  circulated  of  a  want  of 
benevolence  in  the  intentions  of  the  Imperial  Government  with 


I 


25^ 


The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 


regard  to  the  Nizam's  succession  than  to  any  idea  of  the  general 
populace  that  his  dignity  was  about  to  be  lowered  by  a  new  method 
of  reception  in  Durbar,  of  which  I  can  hardly  suppose  them  to  hare 
been  made  aware.  However  this  may  be,  the  new  method  vras 
inaugurated  without  any  hitch,  and  without  evoking  any  visible  sign 
of  displeasure  then  or  since.  Nowadays  it  has  become  old,  to  the 
satisfaction,  I  dare  say,  of  the  most  conservative  Hydcrabadee  who 
desires  the  welfare  of  his  country.  No  one  can  blame  Salar  Jung 
for  resisting  its  introduction,  or  impute  to  him  any  wish  to  retard 
useful  progress ;  but  times  change,  and  I  who  knew  him  intimately 
for  many  years  doubt  if  he  passed  from  the  scene  of  his  triumphs  in 
1883  regretting  the  failure  of  his  efforts  to  preserve  for  bis  master 
what  he  esteemed  an  ancient  privilege.  Alas,  that  the  famous 
Minister  should  have  been  struck  down  by  cholera  before  that  master 
attained  his  majority,  and  that  both  his  sons  died  in  early  manhood  t 
His  philosophic  temperament  rebelled  against  no  change  that 
appeared  inevitable  ;  and  he  may  even  now  in  another  world  regard 
with  equanimity  the  fact  that  a  son  of  his  ancient  rival  and  stoutest 
opponent  occupies  the  post  he  held  with  such  surpassing  tact  and 
skill.  But  my  little  stor>'  is  finished,  and  I  must  not  give  way  to  the 
temptation  of  further  reminiscences.  I  have  thought  this  one  worth 
recounting,  partly  out  of  respect  to  the  memor>'  of  a  former  chief 
and  friend,  also  passed  away  to  the  Land  of  the  l^al,  and  partly  10 
mark  the  contrast  between  Then  and  Now.  Those  who  know  the 
present  Nizam,  His  Highness  Mahboob  Ali  Khan,  the  splendid 
entertainments  he  gives  to  distinguished  persons  when  they  visit  his 
capital,  and  his  skill  with  riSe  and  spear,  will  be  surprised  as  they 
read,  though  some  eager  spirits  and  well-wishers  of  the  State 
generally  may  wish  the  gulf  between  Past  and  Present  in  Hyderabad 
ways  and  politics  were  even  wider  than  it  is.  Mr.  Kipling  teaches 
that  "  to  hustle  the  East "  is  a  vain  thing,  and  he  is  right  Still,  in 
many  ways  and  in  many  places  the  wheels  of  change  and  progress 
have  been  very  busy  these  last  thirty  years,  and  if  one  wanted  a. 
single  striking  illustration  of  this  truism,  by  way  of  contrast  to  the 
scene  just  depicted,  it  might  be  found  in  a  spectacle  witnessed  not 
long  ago,  when  the  child  1  saw  in  his  nurse's  arms,  the  first  of  his 
dynasty  who  ever  paid  a  visit  to  Calcutta  to  greet  an  English  Viceroy, 
was  entertained  by  His  Excellency  at  a  banquet  at  which,  espousing 
the  cause  of  his  Suzerain  in  a  foreign  contest,  be  publicly  and 
spontaneously  proffered  her  his  sword  and  the  entire  resources  of  bis 
kingdom,  thereby  showing  that  be  identified  her  interests  with  bis 
own,  and  was  both  an  intcUigcnt  and  loyal  supporter  of  her  Empire. 

C  u*  XaEVOR. 


OLD   AGE. 

'T'^O  say  that  all  men  desire  old  age  and  yet  that  most  of  them 
X  grumble  when  it  comes  sounds  like  the  answer  to  a  conun- 
drum. It  is  rather  a  truth  wbich  the  moralist  carefully  studies  and 
relegates  to  the  proper  position  in  his  system.  Doubtless  Methuselah 
philosophised  on  old  age  when  himself  900  years  old,  made  the 
ordinary  good  resolutions*  which  the  old  always  do,  and  was  sur- 
prised when  sixty-nine  years  afterwards  the  end  came.  So  slowly 
does  age  creep  over  us,  that  it  is  something  of  a  shock  to  find  our* 
selves  even  at  the  beginning  of  old  age.  Our  faculties  appear  as 
sound  as  ever,  our  taste  for  life  and  its  varied  occupations  and 
pleasures  as  keen,  our  schemes  and  hopes  as  eagerly  cherished,  but 
tliere  is  a  scarcely  perceptible  languor  in  the  frame,  the  limbs  are 
stiffcr  than  they  used  to  be,  slight  shades  of  silver  and  gray  show 
themselves  in  the  hair.  Even  then  no  one  suspects  old  age.  At 
length  a  man  hears  someone  say  irreverently  of  him,  "  Old  So-and-so  " 
said,  or  did,  such  and  such  a  thing.  Then  there  can  be  no  doubt. 
The  shades  arc  beginning  to  deepen.  It  is  as  well  to  look  into 
matters,  learn  in  what  spirit  old  age  must  be  welcomed,  and  what 
prospects  a  reasonable  man  has  of  finishing  the  work  he  has  set 
himself  to  accomplish  in  this  world. 

No  moralist,  whether  in  ancient  or  recent  times,  has  dwelt  so 
beautifully  and  with  so  much  common  sense  upon  old  age  as  Cicero. 
Every  scholar  remembers  his  famous  aphorisms  Mriih  regard  to  it : 
**  Naturam  optimam  ducem  tanquam  Dcum  sequimur,"  and  again, 
"Aptissinu  omnino  sunt  arma  seneciutis  arles  exercitationesque 
▼irtutura."  Theology  reserves  her  teachings  naturally  for  the  pulpit, 
and  warns  off  men  from  expecting  the  future  in  this  world,  a  time 
which  may  never  be  granted.  Serious  thoughts  spring  forth  with  a 
religious  man  in  due  order,  like  the  fullblown  rose  from  its  bud.  The 
ordinary  man,  however,  is  wise  if  he  makes  betimes  a  gradual  pre- 
paraUon,  even  in  worldly  matters,  for  old  age.  Settled  habits  must 
be  cautiously  laid  aside.  A  man,  for  instance,  who  has  been  wont 
all  his  life  to  read  more  or  less  late  into  the  night  should  innovate 
*lowly.    Any  diangc  may  affect  the  digestion  or  the  power  of  sleep. 


'"^^      -*■ 


254 


The  Gentleman  s  Magazhu. 


Outdoor  sports,  again,  must  be  cirtifully  indulged.  It  may  be  a 
question,  save  with  a  strong  man,  whether  it  were  not  safer  to  give 
up  hunting  and  shooting,  at  least  to  prosecute  them  with  much 
discretion.  The  proper  sports  for  an  old  man  are  golf  and  fishing, 
and  even  the  latter  rccrealioti  must  be  used  with  fitting  caution.  It 
may  seriously  affect  the  heart,  if  it  does  not  directly  cause  gout  and 
rheumatism.  A  sensible  person  will  relax  his  bodily  efforts  and  be 
contented  with  less  exercise  than  he  required  in  earlier  life;  gradually 
dissociate  yourself  from,  but  do  not  wholly  banish,  the  favourite 
amusements  of  manhood — such  seems  the  best  advice  to  give  with 
regard  to  this  aspect  of  old  age. 

The  greatest  and  most  becoming  help  in  old  age  is  undoubtedly 
literature.  '*  Nihil  est  otiosa  senectute  jucundius. "  In  this  leisure 
able  state  of  mind  the  old  man  betakes  himself  with  renewed  zest  to 
the  poets  and  prose  writers  which  formed  his  youth  and  manhood. 
He  finds  new  beauties  and  fresh  graces  in  every  favourite  author. 
It  may  be  that  he  takes  up  his  own  pen  and  delights  hts  contempo- 
raries with  ripe  wisdom  and  chastened  language,  the  (hiils  of  long 
observation  and  wide  experience.     VltiaX  then  matter 

Th«  foot  less  prompt  to  meet  the  morning  dew, 
The  heart  less  iKMindinQ  at  emotion  new  ? 

On  the  sunny  garden  seat,  or  by  the  winter  hearth,  he  can 
summon  the  wit  and  the  sage  from  every  country  and  period  to  take 
counsel  with  him,  and  by  their  wise  sentiments  add  to  his  own  store 
of  knowledge.  Plato's  pictures  of  old  age  often  dwell  upon  these 
characteristics.  Thus,  Cephalus,  sitting  with  a  garland  round  bis 
head  discoursing  of  the  advantages  of  old  age,  is  a  charming  idylL 
"  It  is  not  old  age,"  he  says,  "  but  men's  dispositions  which  render 
old  age  bearable  or  the  reverse.  If  their  tempers  are  mild  and 
easily  contented,  old  age  brings  men  no  more  troubles  than  will 
youth,"  A  landscape  which  is  a  perfect  gem  at  the  beginning  of  the 
"Laws,"  "on  the  road  from  Gnossus  to  the  cave  and  temple  of 
Zeus,"  forms  an  exquisite  background  for  the  aged  sages  of  that 
dialogue  to  converse  on  many  moral  and  political  subjects.'  Just  as 
the  stag  and  eagle  renew  their  youth,  so  old  men  find  their  pulses 
quicken  and  their  intellects  stimubted  by  such  discourses  as 
Reynolds,  Boswcll,  and  Johnson  might  liave  exchanged  with  each 
other  in  "  The  Club  " ;  nay,  as  we  know  from  Bo^zy  himself,  they 
did  indulge  in.  A  very  sensible  answer  was  that  of  Gorgias,  when 
asked  how  he  had  managed  to  grow  old  so  pleasantly  and  so  full  of 

■  ZV  XtfitMcat  i.  uo ;  Itgitt  1.  604% 


Old  A^, 


255 


observatian :  **  I  have  Dcver,"  said  be,  **  been  voot  to  do  anything 
for  the  sake  of  pteuure." 

Cicero  sums  up  the  four  disabtfities  of  old  age :  that  it  caJb  as 
away  from  acttve  life,  makes  the  frame  weaker,  deprives  us  of  almost 
all  our  pleasures,  and  is  bat  a  step  distant  at  any  time  from  death. 
A  man  of  (be  world  would  still  dread  these  accompaniments  of 
advanced  life,  but  Christian  leadiing  possesses  a  sure  dcfL-ncc  against 
tlictr  power.  Nowadays  a  man  decries  old  age  mainly  because  it 
leaves  him  alone  in  the  world,  relatives  and  friends  having  gradually 
blktt  off  from  him.  Loss  of  memory,  too,  oppresses  a  man, 
especially  if  he  be  a  scholar.  In  other  respects  old  age  has  brought 
him  judgment,  sympathy,  and  love.  Home  pleasures,  and  especially 
those  derived  from  a  flower  garden,  as  opposed  to  the  only  garden 
Cicero  or  VirgiVs  Con-cian  old  man  knew  much  of— a  kitchen 
garden — are  always  grateful  to  old  age.  Calm  and  iUumined  like  a 
I^pland  night  is  the  model  old  man's  ending.  £nv)-,  hatred,  and 
other  disturbing  passions  are  conspicuously  absent.  He  has  schooled 
himself  into  peace  and  submission  and  at  threescore  years  and  ten 
death  comes  to  him  as  a  friend. 

If  they  are  wise,  old  men  will  consort  as  much  as  possible  wiih 
the  young,  in  order  to  keep  their  intelligence  bright  and  flexible  like 
a  Damascus  sword-blade,  and  to  maintain  an  abundant  crop  of 
sympathies.  Young  men  will  similarly  find  it  adi-antageous  to  associate 
largely  with  the  old.  Thus  will  they  be  preparing  themselves  for 
old  age,  and,  if  their  aged  friends  be  sensible  and  good-natured,  their 
own  experience  of  life  cannot  but  increase.  Old  age,  indeed,  can- 
not away  with  the  strong  meats  and  drinks  which  are  in  a  way 
natural  at  young  men's  feasts,  Cicero  again  has  some  useful  and 
pointed  remarks  on  the  dietary  of  old  age,  on  the  "pocula  minuta 
atque  rorantia  "  which  best  become  it  Exercise  both  bodily  and 
Qcntal  is  beneficial  to  old  age.  The  love  of  a  garden,  to  insist  upon 
:  again,  always  cheers  and  pleases  old  age,  as  may  be  seen  from 
Laertes  to  Canon  Bcadon.  Old  Parr  and  Jenkins  seem  indeed  to 
have  grown  to  thcJr  great  age  mechanically,  as  it  were.  As  a  general 
rule  for  a  happy  old  age  e^-ery  faculty  of  body  and  soul  ought  to  be 
xercised,  but  not  so  much  as  to  fatigue  them.  This  is  the  great 
liculty  to  be  guarded  against  in  a  healthy  age.  Every  kind  of 
ulariiy  is  thus  to  be  avoided.  Small  wonder  that  the  good 
things  of  the  Court  killed  old  Parr. 

One  of  the  latest  authorities  to  philosophise  on  old  age  wns  the 
late  Master  of  Bolliol.  All  who  had  the  happiness  of  knowing  him 
can  imagine  how  dispassionately  and  with  what  an  c\-enly  balanced 


256 


The  Geni/etnan's  Magazine, 


judgment  he  would  treat  so  familiar  a  subject.  "  I  alvrays  mean  to 
cherish  the  illusion/'  he  says,  "  which  is  not  an  illusionf  that  the  last 
years  of  life  are  the  most  valuable  and  important ;  and  every  year  I 
shall  try  in  some  way  or  other  to  do  more  than  the  year  before." ' 
He  goes  on  tu  explain  that  about  fifty-five  years  of  age  the  memory 
begins  to  fait.  Efforts  of  thought  or  feeling  ought  then  to  be  avoided. 
"  Kepose  is  the  natural  slate  of  memory," 

In  wise  words  the  Master  writes  to  Lady  Stanley  :  "1  ask  you 
not  to  think  it  an  affectation  if  I  say  that  the  later  years  o^  life  appear 
to  mc  from  a  certain  point  of  view  to  be  the  best.  They  are  less 
disturbed  by  care  and  the  world ;  we  begin  to  understand  that  things 
never  did  really  matter  so  much  as  we  supposed,  and  we  are  able  to 
see  them  more  in  their  true  proportion,  instead  of  being  overwhelmed 
by  them.  We  are  more  resigned  to  the  will  of  God,  neither  afraid 
to  depart  nor  over-anxious  to  stay.  We  cannot  see  into  another  life, 
but  we  believe  with  an  inextinguishable  hope  that  there  is  something 
still  reser^'cd  for  us."  " 

It  is  worth  while  adding  his  apothegms  on  Old  Age ;  they  are 
full  of  hints  for  the  old,  and  abound  in  practical  wisdom : — 
"  1.  Beware  of  the  coming  on  of  age,  for  it  will  not  be  deiicd. 
"  3.  A  man  cannot  become  young  by  over-exerting  himself. 
"3.  A  man  of  sixty  should  lead  a  quiet,  open-air  life. 
"4.  He  should  collect  the  young  about  him,  though  he  will  find 
probably  in  them  an  inclination  to  disregard  his  opinion,  for  he 
belongs  to  another  generation,  and  '  crabbed  age  and  youth  cannot 
dwell  together.' 

"5.  He  should  set  other  men  to  work. 

"  6.  He  ought  at  sixty  to  have  acquired  authority,  reticence,  and 
freedom  from  personality. 

"  7.  He  may  truly  think  of  the  last  years  of  life  as  being  the  best, 
and  every  year  as  better  than  the  last,  if  he  knows  how  to  use  it. 

"8.  He  should  surround  himself  with  the  pictures,  books, 
subjects  in  which  be  takes  an  interest  and  which  he  desires  to 
remember."' 

Old  age,  then,  resembles  any  other  fragment  of  human  life ;  it  is 
a  process  of  natural  growth,  cannot  be  avoided,  and  is  alwaj's  defied 
at  a  man's  own  peril.  He  has  it  largely  at  his  own  command 
whether  advancing  years  shall  leave  him  as  a  Nestor  or  a  Theraitcs. 
Hence  the  necessity  for  preparation  during  youth  and  manhood  for 
an  orderly,  and  therefore  a  bappyi  Old  Age.  Its  philosophy  appeals 
10  all. 

'  Jowctt,  Uft  mtdLeittrSt  U-  p.  44.         '  f^id,  p.  382.        *  loiJ.  ^.  79. 


Old  Age,  257 

Each  person's  idiosyncrasy  will  suggest  one  of  the  two  great 
methods  of  q)eDding  old  age^  whether  in  the  serene  enjoyment  of 
the  comitry  and  the  tastes  it  engenders,  or  amid  the  society  of  friends 
and  acquaintances  and  the  eager  hurrying  life  of  a  great  city. 
Perhaps  a  judicious  participation  in  the  pleasures  of  each  in  turn  is 
the  wiser  |»rescription  for  sensible  old  age.  A  man  rusts  out  in  the 
country,  charming  though  the  process  be  to  certain  minds ;  he  loses 
in  the  other  much  of  the  leisure  which  is  so  necessary  to  a  well- 
sprat  old  i^;e.  Whatever  a  man  does>  however,  let  him  realise  that 
there  is  yet  a  call  for  his  energies  to  be  utilised.  He  may  leave  a 
fragrant  memory  behind  him  and  be  sure  that  the  good  is  not  always 
interred  with  his  bones.  The  best  monument  is  the  world's  respect. 
And  the  inevitable  end  should  never  be  forestalled  either  bodily  or 
intellectually.    So  long  as  the  faculties  are  mercifully  spared. 

Old  sge  hath  yet  bis  honoar  and  his  \xA\ ; 
Death  closes  all,  but  something  ere  the  end. 
Some  work  of  noble  note  may  yet  be  done. 

A  good  conscience  and  the  approbation  of  the  world  are  the  best 
secular  comforts  for  what,  after  sJl,  needs  no  comforting,  but  possesses, 
its  own  pleasures  and  its  own  consolations.  Let  the  wise  man  go. 
forth  into  the  dark  valley  upheld  by  Thankfulness  and  Love.  At  a. 
certain  point  religion  and  morality  touch.  Then  it  behoves  the 
latter,  where  old  age  is  concerned,  to  lay  her  hand  upon  her  mouth 
and  be  still. 

M.    G,    WATKINS. 


VOL.  CCXCI.     HO.  3049. 


ajS 


The  Gentleman  s  Magazine, 


GUIZOT, 


WHEN  M.  Guizot  came  as  Ambassador  ExtraordiDar>^  and 
Minister  Plenipotentiary  to  the  Court  of  St.  James's  in 
XB40  it  was  the  first  time  he  had  set  foot  in  England,  although  he 
was  then  fift>'-three  years  of  age,  and  lie  suffered  under  the  still 
grcatur  drawback  of  never  having  been  engaged  in  diplomac)*  before. 
He  made  his  d^but  in  the  diplomatic  service  here,  and  he  made  it 
at  a  time  when  the  political  relations  between  England  and  France 
were  tending  to  complexity ;  when  France  liad  been  undergoing 
a  series  of  convulsions,  and  the  average  term  for  a  Ministry  to 
remain  in  oflice  was  between  seven  and  eight  months.  Guizot, 
moreover,  was  in  temperament  as  well  as  in  politics  totally  opposed 
to  the  brilliant  chief  at  the  English  Foreign  Office,  and  he  was  the 
minister  of  a  King  whom  Lord  Palmerston  distrusted  and  disliked 
for  his  faults  of  character  as  much  as  for  his  policy.  If  Louis 
Philippe  had  been  "a  very  straightforward,  scrupulous,  and  high- 
minded  man,"  wrote  Lord  Palmerston  to  Earl  Granville,  "he  would 
not  now  be  sitting  on  the  French  throne." 

As  a  set-off  against  this  Guizot  had  made  a  reputation  for 
statesmanship  in  his  own  country.  He  was  respected  and  welcomed 
by  Liberals  and  Conservatives  in  England  as  pacific  in  his  dealings  ; 
he  was  a  man  of  letters  who  had  won  an  honourable  place ;  and, 
lastly,  he  was  a  Protestant,  and  so  recommended  himself  to  the  more 
thoroughly  English  portion  of  society.  Guizot  was  the  first 
Protestant  Ambassador  whom  France  had  sent  us  since  the  days 
of  the  Stuarts.     He  was  sometimes  called  the  French  Puritan. 

Guizot  lived  through  the  most  eventful  periods  of  modem 
France.  He  was  bom  in  17S7  amid  the  multerings  of  the  Revolu- 
tion. Guizot's  parents  were  married  by  a  proscribed  Protestant  pastor, 
and  his  birth  was  never  legally  registered.  His  father,  who  was 
an  advocate,  used  his  talent  for  public  speaking  in  the  interests  of  the 
persecuted  Protestants,  and  became  a  marked  man.  After  living  for 
several  weeks  in  danger  of  his  life  he  was  at  last  arrested,  unwillingly 
enough,  by  a  gendarme  who  knew  and  respected  him.  '*  Shall 
I  let  you  escape?"  said  the  roan.    "Are  you  mauicd?"  replied 


Guixoi, 


*59 


IkU  GoiioL  "  Ves,  I  bave  two  chBdrtn."  **  And  lo  hane  I,"  replied 
the  prisoner,  *'  bat  you  would  hare  to  piy  for  me ;  let  us  go  on." 
They  went  on,  snd  M.  Gaucot  died  oo  the  sc&ffold  a  fcv  days  later. 

At  this  txine  FiangoiSi  the  future  statesman,  who  was  the  elder  of 
the  tvo  children,  was  six  and  a  half  years  old,  arkd  alwaj-s  i»^esenrcd 
the  recollection  of  going  to  see  his  &thcr  in  prison,  or  what  was 
euphemisticaUy  cilled  (be  House  of  Justice^    His  ^routh  was  9^tt& 
at  Geneva,  whither  Madame  Guirot  retired  in  17^  for  the  sake 
of  her  children's  education.     AAer  her  hosband's  tragic  death  she 
derated  hcisclf  entirely  to  her  two  sons.      They  were  obliged  to  live 
very  frugally,   and    Madame  Gui/ot   did   most  of  the   household 
worit  with  her  own  hands.     But  she  managed  to  secure  the  best 
mastCfs  for  the  boys,  and  al*-ays  found  time  to  be  present  at  their 
lessons.      She  was  so  entirely  one  with  her  children  that  in  the 
screre  winters,  when  the  liitic  boys'  hands  became  sore  and  stiff  with 
chilblains,  she  would   write  their  exercises  for  them   from   their 
dicution.    Besides  the  regular  course  of  study  she  had  tliem  taught  to 
ride  and  to  swim,  and  not  content  with  giving  them  a  good  scholastic 
education,  she  insisted  on  their  learning  a  trade.     Franjois  worlted    1 
at  carpentering,  and  became  a  skilful  joiner.    So  the  early  years  wci^ 
9pefil   in  simple,  studious   fashion   under   the  eye  of  the  stronir 
helpful   mother  who,  for  her  childrcn*s  sake,  battled  against  tlm 
overwhelming  horror  and  grief  of  the  Reign  of  Tenor. 

Guizot  is  described  as  a  coatcroplatire  boy,  fond  of  study 
and  rctiremenL  It  was  difficult  to  arouse  him  when  absorbed 
fn  thoughts,  and  his  companions  used  ineffectually  to  („ 
;  of  practical  jokes.  The  seriousness  of  his  mind  and  the 
trend  of  his  chamcicr  are  evidenced  in  the  following  extracts  from  a 
letter  to  his  mother  when  he  was  nineteen  ; — 

"  MonU  Uw  is  the  law  to  which  I  would  refer  ev-ery  question. 
I  look  upon  every  temptation  to  step  aside  as  a  danger,  and  I 
disregard  every  path  which  does  not  lead  me  back  to  the  right 
road.  I  have  one  quality  wluch  is,  perhaps,  favourable  to  mv 
principles,  although  it  is  often  reviled  by  the  world-obsHnacy 
I  may  be  wrong,  but  whenever  I  think  that  I  am  right  the  whole 
universe  has  no  influence  upon  my  opinions." 

In  1805.  when  he  was  eighteen,  the  little  household  at  Geneva 
was  broken  up.  Madame  Guizot  and  the  younger  boy  went  to 
Ntmcs  to  Madame  Guizofs  parents,  and  Francois  was  sent  to  Paris' 
10  read  law.  Being  a  conscientious,  dutiful  son,  he  worked 
diligently  at  his  legal  studies,  but  his  heart  was  in  literature 
Confident  of  his  own  ability,  he  writes  to  his  mother  in  1806  :— 

TJ 


in  his  own 
the  effect 


26o 


The  Gentknian  s  Magazine. 


"  I  do  not  know  how  I  chanced  to  open  the  drawer  to  which  I  had 
banished  the  first  attempts  of  my  pen.  I  was  not  able  to  resist  the 
temptation  of  reading  some  of  them,  and  it  made  me  sad  to  do  so. 
I  possess  talents,  but  I  cannot  yield  to  their  impulse.  I  cannot 
devote  my  youth  to  studying  the  art  of  writing,  and  all  that  apper- 
tains to  it,  so  as  to  enable  me  in  my  riper  years  togive  free  expression 
to  my  ideas.  I  shall  never  be  able  to  recover  the  time  which  I  might 
have  spent  with  so  mucli  satisfaction ;  it  will  never  come  back. 
Must  I  then  be  in  every  way  thwarted  by  circumstances?  1  was 
intended  by  nature  for  a  distinguished  man  of  letters  ;  I  am  some- 
times devoured  with  the  longing  to  write,  if  it  were  only  for  myself. 
...  I  feel  drawn  towards  literature  and  poetry  by  a  charm  which 
makes  me  miserable." 

For  about  three  years  he  struggled  manfuUy  with  bis  inclinations, 
for  Madame  Guizot  had  no  opinion  of  literature  as  a  profession  ;  but 
at  length,  by  the  intervention  of  a  mutual  friend,  she  was  persuaded  to 
let  her  son  go  his  own  way,  and  in  1808  he  renounced  the  law  and 
gave  his  whole  time  to  letters.  He  seems  to  have  been  fortunate  in 
obtaining  remunerative  work,  for  at  twenty-two  we  find  him  with  a 
variety  of  "  orders."  He  is  writing  articles  for  the  Manure  which 
meet  with  general  satisfaction,  translating  a  book  of  travel,  writing 
notes  on  Gibbon,  and  compiling  a  dictionary  of  synonyms.  VVhUc 
he  was  busied  in  this  way  he  aime  into  contact  with  Mdlle.  Pauline  de 
Meulan,  who  was  writing  for  the  PublUhU,  a  newspaper  cslabhshed 
by  M.  Suard,  Permanent  Secretary  of  the  French  Academy,  whose 
acquaintance  Guizot  had  already  made.  Mdllc.  de  Meulan  belonged 
to  an  exiled  aristocratic  family.  Her  liierary  gift  remained  hidden 
for  some  time,  but  blossomed  forth  under  the  impulse  of  necessity. 
While  she  was  writing  for  the  Pu&iuiste  a  fresh  domestic  misfortune 
overtook  her,  and  anxiety  and  illness  prevented  her  from  accomplish- 
ing her  usual  task.  Guizot  hearing  of  this  undertook  to  write  the 
required  articles,  and  worked  for  her  without  her  knowledge. 
Gradually  the  acquaintance  ripened  into  intimacy,  and  in  1S12  they 
were  married.  It  was  just  after  the  marriage  that  Guizot  was  made 
Professor  of  Literature.  Henceforth  it  was  a  joint  literary  life. 
\V'hile  the  husband  was  writing  political  pamphlets,  the  wife  was 
writing  novelettes,  and  they  were  planning  work  in  common.  She 
writes : — 

"As  you  know,  I  wanted  to  find  something  which  would  give  us 
a  settled  eniployment  and  prove  the  foundation  of  a  dificrunl  sort  of 
life  than  ours  U  now.  ...  Do  not  be  afraid  of  setting  me  to  work» 
dearest  .  .  .  What  I  should  much  prefer  would  be  some  book  in 


Cuizot.  261 

iriiidil  should  undertake  the  dnsd^eiy,  and  to  which  you  would  give 
ooloor  and  bveftdth." 

The  difficulties  which  beset  vires  and  mothers  in  their  liteiaty 
woik  are  shadowed  forth  in  the  following  lines  from  Madame  Guizot 
to  her  husband : — 

**  I  am  wdl,  only  rather  sleepy  in  consequence  of  a  detestable 
oi^iit.  Ifthere  were  no  writing  to  be  done  I  should  have  nothing  to 
complain  of,  but  it  is  a  great  misfortune  for  me  that  I  cannot  make 
Uteraiy  woik  agree  with  the  rest  of  my  life.  If  it  were  possible  for 
me  to  give  myself  entirely  up  to  it  by  devoting  all  my  time  and 
thou^  to  it,  as  you  when  you  want  to  write  well,  I  should  write  well 
too.  I  still  have  the  power  of  so  d<Hng  but  I  have  not  that  (^pass- 
ing continually  from  one  life  to  another,  from  the  multitude  of 
feelii^  cares,  and  thoughts  connected  with  other  lives  to  those  con- 
ceptions which  I  alone  can  originate.  When  I  am  not  writing  I  am 
jvtt,  or  I  belong  to  my  child ;  I  think  of  what  you  are  doing,  of  what  I 
have  to  do  for  my  boy.  In  order  to  write  I  must  be  myself  only, 
and  I  have  no  time  for  such  transitions.  I  exhaust  mj^f,  and  I 
have  no  power  left  fcv  anything." 

Guizot  was  not  long  to  remain  in  the  calm  seclusion  of  his  study. 
Politics  interested  him  more  and  more,  and  in  1814  he  gave  up  his 
studies  and  his  teaching  for  the  post  of  Secretary  to  the  Minister  of 
the  Interior.  Talleyrand  was  then  serving  Louis  XVIII.,  and  though 
their  paths  lay  apart  Guizot  must  have  had  opportunities  of 
learning  som^bing  of  the  leading  statesman  and  diplomatist  of  the 
times,  whose  character  he  summed  up  in  after  years  with  a  good  deal 
of  discernment  At  the  Home  Office,  as  we  should  call  it,  Guizot 
remained  until  forced  back  into  retirement  with  the  Hundred  Days. 
He  served  again  under  the  Bourbons,  becoming  a  ConseilUr  d'£tatj 
until  they  were  driven  from  the  throne,  and  he  then  took  office  under 
Louis  Philippe. 

When  in  company  with  the  other  advisers  of  Charles  X.  he  was 
dismissed,  and  retired  to  the  house  called  Maisonnette,  near  Meulan, 
lent  him  by  Madame  de  Condorcet,  he  wrote : — 

"At  that  time  I  was  strongly  attached,  and  have  ever  since 
remained  so,  to  public  life.  Nevertheless  I  have  never  quitted  it 
without  experiencing  a  feeling  of  satisfaction  mixed  with  my  regret, 
as  that  of  a  man  who  throws  off  a  burden  which  he  willingly  sustained, 
or  who  passes  from  a  warm  and  exciting  atmosphere  into  a  light  and 
refreshing  temperature." 

The  life  at  Meulan  suited  him.    He  writes: — 

"  I  sometimes  went  to  Paris  on  affairs  of  business.    I  find  in  a 


262 


The  Geniieman's  Magazine. 


letter  which  I  wrote  to  Madame  Guizot  during  one  of  these  joumcys 
the  impressions  I  experience.  At  the  first  moment  I  feel  pleasure  at 
mixing  again  and  conversing  with  the  world,  but  soon  grow  weary  of 
unprofitable  words.  There  is  no  repetition  more  tiresome  than  that 
which  bears  upon  popular  matters.  We  arc  eternally  listening  to 
what  we  know  already ;  we  are  perpetually  telling  others  what  they 
are  as  well  acquainted  with  as  we  are:  this  is  at  the  same  time 
insipid  and  agitating.  In  my  inaction  I  prefer  talking  to  the  trees^ 
the  flowers,  the  sun,  and  the  wind." 

He  gives  us  a  picture  of  his  life  at  McuLin : — 

"  The  house,  not  too  small,  was  commodious  and  neatly  arranged : 
on  either  side,  as  you  left  the  dining  hall,  were  large  trees  and  groves 
of  shrubs ;  behind  and  above  the  mansion  was  a  garden  of  moderate 
extent,  but  intersected  by  walks  winding  up  the  side  of  the  hill  and 
bordered  by  flowers.  At  the  top  of  the  garden  was  a  small  pavilion, 
well  suited  for  reading  alone  or  for  conversation  with  a  single  com- 
panion. Beyond  the  enclosure,  and  still  ascending,  were  voods, 
fields,  other  country  houses,  and  gardens  scattered  on  different 
elevations.  I  lived  there  with  my  wife  and  my  son  Francis,  who 
had  just  reached  his  fifth  year.  My  friends  often  came  to  visit  me. 
In  all  that  surrounded  me  there  was  nothing  either  rare  or  beautiful. 
It  was  Nature  with  her  simplest  ornaments,  and  family  life  in  the  most 
unpretending  tranquillity."  .  .  . 

"  In  the  bosom  of  this  calm  and  satisfying  life,  public  affairs,  the 
part  I  had  begun  to  take  in  them,  the  ties  of  mutual  opinion  and 
friendship  I  had  formed,  the  hopes  I  had  entertained  for  my  country 
and  mj-self,  continued  nevertheless  to  occupy  much  of  my  attention. 
I  became  anxious  to  declare  aloud  my  thoughts  on  the  new  system 
under  which  France  was  governed ;  on  what  that  system  had  become 
since  1S14,  and  what  it  ought  to  be  to  keep  its  word  and  accomplish 
its  object" 

Considering  the  active  part  which  Guizot  took  in  politics,  theea.se 
with  which  he  resumed  bis  literary  labours  after  each  interruption,  as 
if  he  had  only  the  moment  before  laid  down  his  pen,  speaks  much 
for  the  placidity  of  his  disposition  and  his  powers  of  concentration. 

As  a  politician  he  worked  very  hard,  and  gave  lumself  up  entirely 
to  affairs  of  state  ;  but  when  the  moment  came  for  retirement  he  could 
^e^:nler  his  library,  gather  his  works  about  him,  and  take  up  the  life 
of  a  philosopher  and  student  Society  he  could  always  command, 
even  when  the  social  fabric  was  shaken  to  its  centre. 

"  The  world  in  which  I  had  long  lived— the  amiable,  poU-^hed, 
and  educated  society  which  had  rallied  under  the  Empire,  and 


stz 


odiec  br 

I  _ 

al  tfatf  tMK  flB  odoBSK  jp  wii^^  Tf  anrivsc  ir  sar  s^n.  manaot 
CBde  ihe  xical  dbaaB  «f -vokx  Jbe  Txssaz.  -wade  los  asjLJwsd. 
Oar  tatOM^  vac  durfi  ^^^  £  3e  -■■^ym^  ic  ^le  Xknr  oe 
Bra^kL  £«^  if  3^  DiEai^  xaz  ^amsc  nie  gr:yS,-r  sE  liL 
die  KHHBDBBcei  jnn  111  iT  13  i^  xEZK^aie  wifiiiyn^  in  besdf  ^ 

WhcB  G«mat  cane  t9  Trirhnif  ss  ifbe  J^aaasaocr  oc  Lccs 
FtaSplie  io  xftfO  ke  «as  k  die  iifliTuui  cf  ifas  cae-eer.  AmrFg  !^ 
cuuuUjMttihcmMthefatqwacnassf  bsride.opeof  AepiScsof 
uic  iCoBntBy.  Aaoog  pcftiti^as  uraui  les  busk  oirned  we^gpi 
as  a  flua  of  afaffity  aad  i^m^iwji^  ndpaers.  asd  bcdi  «i  boMC  «sd 
abroad  be  was  irtjiriird  far  fas  ILpjij  iroA.  ^VlKEfaer  GtssK's 
taloits  were  so  vcfl  ^fispbred  as  a  dipkxninsi  xs  c^en  to  <;Dest3on. 
That  be  n  aooepCaUe  in  Es^hnd  ai  the  time  of  his  mxssko  tbene 
is  no  feason  to  doobt,  for  akboo^  Eag^aod  had  do  paitkuUr  likii^ 
for  the  Orleanisi  prince  vfaom  Gnuot  had  belied  to  the  Ouone,  the 
majority  of  the  Eog&b  people  preferred  stabOityto  disocdcr,  and  aft«r 
the  froqamt  and  vkdent  diods  wfakfa  monardiy  in  France  had  under^ 
gone  doring  tiie  bst  balf-centnry,  there  ms  a  good  d<al  to  be  said 
for  a  consistent  advocate  of  social  order.  AXlien  entering  public  life 
Gutzot  tfaos  explains  his  positi<Hi : — 

"Bom  a  citizen  and  a  Protestant  I  have  ever  been  unswen-ingly 
devoted  to  Hboty  of  conscience,  equality  in  the  eye  of  the  law,  and 
all  the  acquired  privil^es  of  social  order.  ...  I  have  c\'cr  prited 
above  aU  oonsideiations  just  policy  and  liberty  restrained  by  law.  I 
despaired  of  both  under  the  Empire ;  I  hoped  for  them  from  the 
Restoration.'* 

It  has  been  said  of  Guizot  by  an  American  writer  that  "  as  a 
diplomatist  he  was  not  sufficiently  shrewd  for  the  sharp  practice  of 
those  revolutionary  times."  That  may  well  have  been  so ;  but  con- 
sidering with  whom  Guizot  had  to  deal,  it  was  perhaps  fortunate  in 
tike  interests  of  peace  that  France  did  not  send  us  a  man  of  "  sharp 


264 


The  Geni/emans  Magazine, 


practice,"  who  would  have  polished  his  wits  against  those  of  Lord 
Palmerston,  and  brought  about  a  complete  rupture  between  the  two 
countries.  Guizot,  pitted  against  leading  contemporary  statesmen 
and  diplomatists,  is  rather  like  a  steady  hack  in  a  racing  stud.  He 
is  not  a  striking  figurt:  In  company  with  the  unconquerable  Talleyrand, 
or  with  the  astute  Metternich  and  the  far-seeing  Pozzo  di  Borgo, 
both  in  their  several  ways  checks  upon  Napoleon,  or  with  our  own 
brilliant  Foreign  Secrctar)',  who  was  feared  abroad  as  much  as  he 
was  admited  at  home.  Guizot,  though  he  had  his  detractors,  was 
not  the  nun  to  excite  in  other  countries  tlie  feeling  which  inspired 
the  couplet : — 

\lai  det  Teard  cioeii  Sohn, 

So  Ut  er  Mcbcr  Palmcr&ton. 


Guizot  was  thought  in  his  early  political  life  to  fax'our  English 
laws  and  customs,  but  he  prided  himself  on  being  a  Frenchman  of 
the  French.  In  after  years  he  made  a  profound  study  of  the  history 
and  national  life  of  England,  and  took  an  active  part  in  the  French 
Chamber  in  affairs  which  touched  England.  It  was  his  knowledge 
of,  and  his  interest  in  this  country,  acquired  from  books  and  study, 
that  formed  one  of  his  recommendations  for  the  post  of  Ambassador. 
But  as  a  young  man  he  had  no  eyes  except  for  his  own  country. 
He  writes : — 

"  I  have  been  accused  of  desiring  to  model  France  upon  the 
example  of  England.  In  1815  my  thoughts  were  not  turned  towards 
England— at  that  time  I  had  not  seriously  studied  her  institutions 
or  her  history.  I  was  entirely  occupied  with  France,  her  destinies, 
her  civilisation,  her  laws,  her  literature,  and  her  great  men.  I  lived 
in  the  heart  of  a  society  exclusively  French— more  deeply  impregnated 
with  French  tastes  and  sentiments  than  any  other." 

But  if  Guizot  grew  up  with  traditions  exclusively  French  he  bad 
one  feature  in  his  character  that  gave  him  a  kinship  with  Englishmen, 
and  that  was  the  domestic  temperament.  Guizot  was  quite  a  family 
man.  He  had  as  deep  a  respect  for  the  sanctity  of  domestic  life  as 
the  most  insular  of  our  countrymen.  His  affection  for  bis  motl)cr, 
his  wife,  his  children,  and  his  delight  in  their  society  were  unfeigned. 
His  chivalry  to  women  was  one  of  his  most  delightful  characteristics. 
After  he  had  retired  from  public  life  he  gathered  as  many  relations 
about  him  as  the  house  at  V&l  Richer  would  accommodate.  Not 
content  with  children  and  grandchildren,  he  sheltered  under  his 
hospitable  roof  an  aunt  of  his  two  sons-in-law,  and  treated  the  old 
lady  with  the  utmost  respect  and  consideration.    He  never  (ailed  to 


tfaek  stBdKS  and  aHHoeBK.  '  .iBnwinng  im.  iasr  jmaunwja^ 

iwiwili  He  cfayectt  to  siB  vmaf  '""'t'"—  ~— "^"^  i  ■fiii^ 
IficfadtA  'WmKMf  «f  FaoR*  soe  if  Koae^  ^nsi  !icn( 
fit,  Bi  fas  ^tfBtoCHH,  Ac  ^lA&BL.  Sit  juvLKft  3i^B9ic  3LjiQirx 
"HBtoty  of  Kflnc*    He  ■  '"■■'■  "»■■  i""i^»  iie  j"ff^'"™'"*  3£ 

itO|is  and  <piiiriig  ■iiniwi*  wimufeC;  jiiiir  iiwpg,    T^  Jizle  'scwi 

and  sfarafas  nemiw  ziBSoed  naai  ae'inpir.  T^^ic  cu -nns  s 
tfaetr  fitthcr  in  Eirgfitif.,.  xb£  .bskI^.  jubl  sm  JPCBTafiiif  'Ssbdhsq 
on  diar  piug^uiL 

It  was  Gnor's  sBer-oMnr  -nc  sw  :3e  .ijr  "i  ti  sige:=z- 
iriidnur  of  las  IwiwiMiirf  «ue  ae  -was  xaoj  2  y-Wamr  a  rv 
1S40  bis  stamd  «i£e  was  dead.  Be  -vrxss  31  pac  <v^-7  azccc  :=e 
in^KOVcaMnKs  to  be  ''-"'"f^  one  c  Vxl  ?  ■■■"'^i"  ^^^  Xccsiaacj  msK^ 
wlikfa  hid  been  taken  »  ae  peeasaaenc  VrrTy  -f  liiia'  1  ■  >  Etci 
alien  fiu  asaj,  in  tocaJr  '^*-^'f  s=rrgca£3Q.  cicj'-lLijg  ypTwi 
present  to  fab  qpe.  He^scsaaes  c:e  jcvtt^x  cc  ±e  Jcvr.  sae<5s- 
posalof  thesoi|ihitcgna,aep'a*r^g«':bebedttes.±ccocsg-3g3^ 
of  adoor,cra]tbecarpeciuidcia=xvi:^zesc.  I2  ttxcc  hs  jccren 
be  describes  a  vist  be  paid  to  the  X>'^s£.  of  Xordarntbedand  at  ^oa 
House:— 

"All  nxmd  the  ho^ae  zre  those  maTrftlfss  green  fields  of 
RngbnH,  coTcnd  with  beantifal  sheep  simI  govs,  all  as  dean  and 
irdl  cared  for  as  the  giass.  Yet  I  tike  my  Val  Richer  a  thoosand 
times  better." 

For  the  cdiildren's  amasement  he  describes  incidents  of  his  life 
in  Errand,  and  tells  them  an  anecdote  of  his  first  visit  to  Windsor 
Castl^  which  be  says  they  mast  not  repeat  lest  it  should  bring  him 
into  trouUe.  One  can  easily  imagine  how  the  penny-a-lin«  would 
have  enjoyed  emlvcHdeiing  on  the  following  story  : — 

"On  Wednesday  evening  at  Windsor  the  Queen  retired  at 
eleven  o'clock.  We  stayed  behind  talking  for  half  an  hour.  At 
midnight  I  set  out  to  find  my  own  apartment,  and  I  lose  myself  in 
the  galleries,  saloons,  and  corridors.  At  last  I  slowly  open  a  door, 
taking  it  for  mine,  and  I  see  a  lady  beginning  to  undress,  attended 
*ManvMtmtrigX9fMm^J)nfU,    M.  C  M.  Slnpnn. 


266 


The  Gentlematis  Magazine, 


by  her  maid.  I  shut  tbc  door  as  fast  as  1  can  and  b^io  again  to 
search  for  my  own  room.  I  at  last  find  someone  who  shows  me 
the  way.  I  go  to  bed.  The  next  day  at  dinner  the  Queen  said  to 
me,  laughingly,  *  Do  you  know  that  you  entered  ray  room  at  mid- 
night?' *How,Ma'am,  was  it  your  Majesty's  doorthatlhalf  opened?' 
'Certainty.'  And  she  began  laughing  again,  and  so  did  I.  I  told 
her  of  my  {)eri)lexity,  which  she  liad  already  guessed,  and  I  asked 
whether  if,  like  St.  Simon  or  Sully,  I  should  ever  write  my  memoirs 
she  would  allow  me  to  mention  that  1  had  opened  the  Queen  of 
England's  door  in  Windsor  Castle  at  midnight  while  she  was  going 
to  bed.     She  gave  me  permission  and  laughed  heartily." 

Court  life  in  London,  though  it  interested  him  from  some  points 
of  view,  he  must  have  found  dull.  He  thus  describes  his  first  dinner- 
party and  lev^e : — 

"  On  Thursday,  the  5th  Marcli,  I  dined  for  the  first  time  with  the 
Queen.  Neither  during  the  dinner  nor  in  the  drawing-room  after- 
wards was  the  conversation  animated  or  interesting.  I'ohtical 
subjects  were  entirely  avoided ;  we  sat  round  a  circubr  table  before 
the  Queen,  who  was  on  a  sofa ;  two  or  three  of  her  ladies  were 
endeavouring  to  work ;  Prince  Albert  played  at  chess ;  Lady 
Palmerston  and  I  with  some  effort  carried  on  a  flagging  dialogue. 
.  .  .  On  the  day  after,  the  6th  March,  the  Queen  held  a  lev^e  at 
Sl  James's  Palace — a  long  and  monotonous  ceremony  which  ne\'cr- 
theless  inspired  me  with  real  interest.  I  regarded  with  excited  esteem 
the  profound respcctof  that  vast  assembly — courtiers,  citixens,  lawyers, 
Churchmen,  officers,  military  and  naval— passing  before  the  Queen, 
the  greater  portion  bending  the  knee  to  kiss  her  hand,  all  perfectly 
solemn,  sincere,  and  awkward." 

In  England  M.  Guizot  became  acquainted  with  the  leading 
aristocrats  on  botli  sides  ;  but  he  saw  more  of  the  Wliigs  ilian  of  the 
Tories,  for  the  reason,  as  he  explains,  that  the  Tories  had  fewer 
centres  in  London.  He  became  a  constant  visitor  at  Holland 
House.  Lord  Holland's  sympathies  always  went  out  towards  France, 
and  Guizot  was  evidently  hked  by  Lady  Holland,  who  on  one 
occasion  gave  him  a  glimpse  of  her  real  nature  which  awoke  his 
sympathy  and  respecL  He  happened  to  call  one  evening  and 
found  Lady  Holbnd  alone  in  the  library.  On  his  asking  her  if  she 
were  often  thus  by  herself  she  replied :  "  No,  very  seldom ;  but  when 
it  occurs  I  am  not  without  resources  ...  I  entreat  tlic  friends  you 
see  there  to  descend  from  above  [poindng  to  the  pictures].  I  know 
the  place  that  each  prefcned,  the  armchair  in  which  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  siL    They  come :  I  find  myself  again  with  Fox,  RomQey, 


Gutzot.  267 


Mackintosh,  Sheridan,  and  Homer ;  they  speak  to  me^  and  I  am  no 
longer  by  myself."  The  genuine  feeling  with  which  she  spoke  was 
a  revelation  to  GuizoL 

At  Holland  House  be  used  to  meet  Sydney  Smith,  Lord  Jeffrey, 
Mhd   hosts   of  others,  and   had   ample  opportunity  of  gauging  the 
qoality  of  English  Society.     With  Hallam^  the  historian,  Guizot 
fratemised  as  a  man  of  letters,  and  the  two  writers  speedily  became 
intimate.    HaUam  introduced  him  to  Bean  Milman  and  to  Macaulay, 
who  undertook  to  pilot  Guizot  through  Westminster  Abbey.   On  that 
occasion  Macauluy  poured  forth  all  his  stores  of  learning  and  elo- 
quence, descanting,  explaining,  and  answering  questions  before  each 
monument  to  the  immense  delight  and  astonishment  of  Guizot,  who 
expresses  the  most  sincere  admiration  for  his  brilliant  companion. 
The  Duchess  of  Suthcrbnd  invited  him  to  Sutherland  House  to  meet 
Dr.  Arnold.     The  Dowager  Lady  Stanley  of  Alderley,  then  Mrs. 
Stanley,    introduced    him   to  Daniel   O'Connell.      The  two  Miss 
Berrys  received  him  in  the  evening  at  their  delightful  little  riunions. 
Poor  old  L/)rd  Grey,  living  in  the  cold  shade  of  retirement,  was 
warmed  and  cheered  by  friendly,  unceremonious  calls  from  the 
French  Ambassador,  to  whom  he  sadly  commented  on  the  number 
of  people  who  then  passed  his  door  without  entering. 

Guizot  also  dined,  among  others,  with  Elizabeth  Kr>-,  whom  he 

'  had  met  in  Paris,  and  with  Grote,  the  historian,  at  whose  house  he 
met  some  representatives  of  the  Radical  party,  who  were  not  very 

.active  just   then.     The  clergy  received  Guizot  with   open   arms, 

rdeligbted  to   make  much  of  so  distinguished  a  Protestant.    The 
Bishop  of  London  yearned  to  take  the  Ambassador  in   state  to 
St.  Paul's  for  all  the  worid  to  see ;  but  Guizot  declined  the  honour 
and  insisted  on  going  quietly  like  one  of  the  ordinary  congregation. 
No  wonder  that  he  writes :  "  At  home  and  abroad,  between  business 
and  societ)',  ray  time  was  much  occupied''    AVhen  he  adds:  "I 
cannot  say  that  it  was  entirely  filled,"  one  feels  that  it  was  only  his 
insatiable  thirst  for  occupation  making  itself  apparent.     While  he 
was  Minister  of  the  Interior  he  worked  so  IndclatigaLly  that  M 
Casirair-P&ier  said  one  day  to  Louis  Philippe,  "Sire,  you  will  want 
M.  Guizot  for  a  long  time  :  tell  him  not  to  kill  himself  aU  at  once 

m  your  service."    He  was  by  nature  a  hard  worker.     He  says  of 

himself  : — 

"  I  have  given  myself  up  to  public  affairs  as  water  rolls,  as  fiome 
ascends.  When  1  saw  the  occasion,  when  the  event  called  upon  me, 
1  neither  deliberated  nor  selected,  I  betook  myself  to  my  post." 

The  time  which  in  London  was  not  "  entirely  filled "  Guizot 


4 


268 


The  Gentleman's  Magazine, 


employed  in  regrets  for  the  companionship  of  his  children.  He  was 
never  happy  for  long  away  from  hts  domestic  circle,  and  not  all  the 
distractions  of  politics  and  society  could  moke  up  to  him  for  thftt 
daily  intimate  intercourse  with  his  own  kith  and  kin. 

The  man  whom  Cuizot  knew  best  among  the  Tories  was  John 
Wilson  Croker,  who  was  living  in  Kensington  Palace  in  rooms  given 
him  by  George  IV.  Guizot  and  Crokcr  had  met  before  in  Paris,  and 
when  Guizot  came  to  England  Croker  acted  as  a  kind  of  guide 
to  the  section  of  society  in  which  he  mo%'ed.  The  friendship  was 
kept  up  by  correspondence  in  after  years. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  Guizot  saw  Stratford  Canning,  of  whom 
he  says:  "Sir  Stratford  Canning  had  not  then  displayed  in  the 
embassy  to  Constantinople  his  prevailing  and  indomitable  energy; 
but  the  manly  frankness  of  his  character  and  the  tempered  elevation 
of  his  manners  possessed  for  me  from  the  first  a  charm  which  his 
diplomatic  disagreements  had  never  effaced." 

Guizot  was  undoubtedly  a  popular  Ambassador  in  society.  He 
appreciated  the  special  virtues  of  the  English,  was  an  agreeable 
guest,  and  understood  his  duties  as  a  host.  Lady  Holland  wrote  to 
a  friend  in  Paris  :  "  M.  Guizot  pleases  all  the  world  here,  including 
the  Queen.  The  public  augurs  well  from  his  having  placed  the 
celebmted  Louis  at  the  head  of  his  kitchen  :  few  things  contribute 
more  to  popularity  in  London  than  good  cheer."  The  aforesaid 
Louis  was  a  cA/who  had  formerly  been  in  the  employ  of  Talleyrand, 
and  was  brought  from  Paris  by  Guizot  in  his  train. 

It  was  greatly  in  Guizot 's  favour  that  he  understood  English 
history  and  institutions  better  than  most  Frenchmen  of  that  time, 
lie  had  a  pretty  iair  command  of  the  language,  though  in  a  titt-it-UU 
with  Lord  Melbourne  each  statesman  spoke  in  his  mother  tongue.  But 
at  the  Lord  Mayor's  banquet,  given  about  a  month  after  his  arrival, 
Guizot  made  a  speech  in  English,  which  was  loudly  applauded. 
He  was  advised  by  Earl  Granville,  who  was  then  in  Paris,  to  make 
a  similar  elTort  at  the  Royal  Academy  banquet  a  tittle  later,  but 
reasoned  rightly  that  French,  which  would  have  been  unintelligible 
in  the  City,  would  be  appreciated  by  the  guests  at  the  Royal 
Academy. 

It  may  be  interesting  at  this  point  to  quote  Guizot's  impressions 
of  the  English  cliaraclcr  : — 

"  When  I  say  that  the  air  is  cold,  in  society  as  in  the  climate,  I 
do  not  mean  to  say  that  the  English  people  are  cold — obser>'ation 
and  my  own  experience  have  taught  me  the  contrar>'.  \Vc  not  only 
meet  amongst  them  lofty  sentiments  and  ardent  passions ;  they  ore 


Gmizot,  26^ 


tlso  TCiy  cMpihle  of  pntoopu  sflbctian^  viadi  ooce  cdcnog  into 
Uieir  hesrts  become  as  tender  as  tfaey  are  deeply  seated  What 
tfaef  mnt  is  iiwIJiwliw^  praoqil;  nrnmsd  ijmpailw  .  .  .  Tfarao^ 
awKwaiui  icss  oe  sijiiess  as  loiich  as  uwougb  pnde,  i3>^  stJdoni 
ednfait  what  they  naDy  fed  .  .  .  Eicn  jiwibu  tfaomtltu  the^  are 
btfle  ftank  and  corfiil  ^  di^  faare  aliDGst  alwavs  an  air  of  dxsdaxirfnl 
and  canst ic  ressre  vtudi  fafutlies  and  luspues  ft  secret  and  tiiiul 
discontent  .  .  .  HieEo^diareii^inattaKlnngtfaelqgbettvalne 
to  didr  internal  fife^  to  tfacir  jImi^  and  above  all  to  the  doseness  of 
the  cacqa^  tie  ...  It  is  certain  that  to  eojor  Eog&sfa  society  ve 
nnist  f^"*E  to  domgstic  »iH  ifijoof  rrati54?**"***  latber  *Hatt  g^re 
ouisdfcs  Qp  to  die  ^^^'*f  employments  of  the  vorid  and  cuncnt 
erents," 

Gntsot  ms  sent  to  Eiq^and  as  Ambassador  because  a  man  of 
more  wci^  and  Tnftnmrr  than  Manhal  Sphastiani  vas  needed  to 
lepiamil  France.  Lord  PUmerston  was  anxioos  for  a  dtangt  of 
Amfaaaaador^  and  looked  Ibrvaxd  to  Gmsot's  arrival  to  male  things 
nm  more  easily.    He  writes  to  Lord  Gramine^  March  1 1,  1840  r— 

"  Sehastiani  was  ofl^  I  bdiere,  today.  I  hope  and  trust  that 
Gnizot  win  come  over  widiODt  delay.  It  is  of  great  importance  that 
be  should  do  so.  He  is  a  sennble  and  enl^tened  man,  and  I  can- 
not but  think  diat  we  may  be  able  to  say  things  to  him  and  to  point 
ont  to  him  consideiations  which  must  bare  we^t  in  his  mind,  and 
that  through  him  we  may  act  upon  the  French  Goremment ;  bat  then 
be  must  come  soon." 

TronUes  were  pending  in  Egypt  and  S}-ria  which  threatened  to 
reopen  the  Eastern  question.  The  quarrel  between  the  Saltan  and 
his  imperious  vassal,  Mdiemet  Ali,  Pasha  of  Egypt,  was  becoming 
a  European  a&ir.  Lord  Palmerston,  unwilling  to  believe  in  the 
rottenness  erf'  Turkey  and  foreseeing  a  danger  of  French  predomi 
nance  in  ^ypt  and  Russian  aggression  in  Turkey  if  Mehemet  Ali  wen. 
allowed  to  deiy  the  Sultan,  was  all  for  upholding  the  authority  of  the 
Porte.  The  year  before  France  had  agreed  to  treat  this  question 
in  concert  with  England,  Austria,  Russia,  and  Prussia,  and  Lord 
Palmeiston  now  called  upon  Fiance  to  keep  to  the  terms  of  that 
agreonent  In  Guizot  he  hoped  to  find  a  statesman  who  would 
ccmnder  the  question  broadly  from  an  international  point  of  view, 
and  who  would  see  the  necessity  for  adhering  to  that  doctrine  which 
has  been  the  fetish  of  European  statesmen  for  so  many  years — the 
maintenance  of  the  integrity  of  the  Ottoman  Empire.  But  Guizo: 
personally  had  no  faith  in  the  vitality  of  Turkey  or  in  her  capacity 
for  decent  govenmient,  and  represented  that  to  reduce  Mehemet  Ali 


270 


Tkc  GentUman  5  Magazine, 


to  submission  and  to  give  the  Sultan  absolute  power  in  Egypt  and 
S)Tia  would  be  to  introduce  a  reign  of  anarchy.  The  French  had 
ibeir  own  reasons  for  supporting  the  pretensions  of  Mchemet  Ali, 
and  obstinately  refused  to  come  into  agreement  with  the  other 
Powers. 

The  conversations  which  Guizot  had  with  Lord  Palmerston  were 
long  and  serious,  but  did  not  do  much  towards  a  rapprochement. 
According  to  his  ovn  account,  Guizot  used  to  get  the  better  of 
J^rd  Palmerston  in  argument^  and  harangued  him  with  a  great  show 
of  reason  and  justice.  But  as  a  man  of  action  the  Ambassador  wa^ 
no  match  for  the  English  Foreign  Secretary^  as  events  proved. 
Lord  Palmerston  held  to  his  own  opinions  while  Ustcning  to  all 
Ciuizot  had  to  say,  and  told  him  very  plainly  that  he  exaggerated  the 
helplessness  of  Turkey  and  did  not  grasp  the  far-reaching  aims 
of  Russia. 

In  the  meantime  Guizot  and  Thiers  were  corresponding  at  great 
length,  quibbling  over  the  significance  of  a  comma  in  one  of  Thiers's 
communications,  which  Thiers  at  last  confessed  meant  nothing. 
Thiers  was  advising  Guizot  to  be  cold  and  reserved,  which  bang 
translated  into  Lord  Palmcrston's  terse  phraseology  was  *'  looking  as 
cross  as  the  Devil,"  and  the  "  English  and  French  politicians,  having 
failed  to  understand  each  other,  were  each  at  the  foot  of  the 
wall  ready  to  jostle. *'  Lord  Palmerston  understood  the  position 
thoroughly,  and  knew  that  if  he  held  firmly  to  the  terms  of  the  agree- 
ment he  could  make  the  other  three  Powers  go  with  him.  Mettemich, 
who  was  the  most  important  factor  in  the  Concert,  he  knew  he 
could  count  upon,  and  the  only  result  of  France's  obstinacy  would 
be  that  she  would  be  left  out  in  the  cold.  France  tried  to  com- 
promise  matters  by  extracting  concessions  from  Mchemet  Ali  with 
regard  to  the  limitation  of  his  power,  and  sent  Count  Walewski  with 
counsels  of  peace  to  the  fiery  Pasha,  but  these  concessions  did 
not  satisfy  Lord  Palmerston.  He  prepared  for  action,  and  presently 
France  saw  with  dismay  an  English  fleet  in  possession  of  Beyrout 
and  Mehemct  Ali  deposed. 

Guizot  (ailed  in  the  principal  object  of  his  mission.  He 
negotiated  gome  other  unimportant  matters  successfully.  It  was 
through  him  that  application  was  made  to  the  English  Government 
for  permission  to  remove  the  remains  of  Napoleon  from  Su  Helena 
to  Paris,  but  this  being  a  request  which  lilngland  was  perfectly  ready 
to  grant,  and  not  afiecting  the  relations  between  the  two  countries, 
did  not  require  much  negotiation.  About  this  lime  also  a  dispute 
arose  with  Naples  over  the  exportation  of  sulphur  products,  ftod  the 


^BESB^^B   sue  ^VCS^^-^tUBS' 
je«L  IOC  D«."  _ 

-»ii.'i'f  •^  'JTittw*'  IT'  £aBK9D£ 

was  dof  to  &Ei  »ar'.'j"riig-    X<i£aiB  ?^iiznce  ^j!!iari.-wf  . — 

"M.  TrWpfTfTfr''**^^*'<fMiinmM3r  T**f  *Fpr  iexac  'smcnfiLiix^ 
h  goenc  11  me  ^  ^ot^^-xii  ot  scx^jl  rii=xz  ^Esstzmas: 
de&Mcitgijmeg^xea  I'lr  egin:^i:t'fn'wrT=bgraJE''gmes.* 

It  vai  not  woo5s5ai  2K  Gascc  ad  act  ±.li  .  '.  ii:  bf==£r  k  a 
dqilooBtitt.  He  ins  nore  rrfrrL**  tsei  »-:r*,  cii  *s  fxif  «C3c^ 
sored  liiai  «^  ki  =bs  o«n  <  ■  <iri  ■  j  ▼=«  sac  ce'  £mc  rse  r?  bia 
abroad.  T^Miiir^ga3d<ijT'iTareacc:=er3£:gqrTrr^3cra=Agib«s- 
sador.  As  an  Bi£nd3il  be  «as  »i.'.r;>iKy  £— s<i  ^  oe  pcec  :  ;x  b£ 
coold  be  agReaUe  to  trose  to  vbocs  be  vas  pcciacalT  cp^Keed^  aad 
during  his  niil?pwj  node  =a=T  feSeaca  vbo  we^cooed  hfaa  a^izia 
wfacnheigtnmrdasaaecSeiniS^gu  Lccdf^IaestcfLUcoc^ccbin; 
was  kind  and  oordia],  diowiag  him  hcspcalin-  in  his  msfectnnes. 

When  the  iwolusion  of  184S  broke  oct  the  Gainx  tamih-  jC* 
came  to  England  in  detachments.  Goizot's  mocher.  who  was  then 
e^^i^-six  yeaxs  of  a^e^  airinog  first  with  h«  gTandchildrea  At 
<Hie  moment  it  seemed  as  if  the  tragedy  cf  her  husband's  death  vas 
to  be  re-enacted  in  the  person  of  her  sotl  But  Guixot  escaped 
safely,  and  the  refugees  setded  down  in  Pelham  Crescent,  Biompton. 
But  the  strain  c^  witnessing  a  second  rerolution  was  too  mud)  for 
Madame  Gnizot,  and  she  died  a  fortnight  after  her  anival 

After  the  Act  of  Amnesty  Guizot  was  able  to  return  to  France, 
and  in  July  1849  re-established  himself  at  Val  Richer.  In  th« 
following  year  his  two  daughters  married  the  brothers  De  Witt,  thii 
double  alliance  giving  him  great  satisfaction.  In  the  same  yenr 
Louis  Phflippe  died,  and  thenceforth  Guizot  took  no  acli\'e  p»it  in 
politics,  although  he  followed  the  course  of  events  with  the  keenest 
interest  In  1855  he  paid  a  visit  to  England  on  the  anntveraary  of 
Louis  Philippe's  death,  and  again  in  1858,  when  he  stayed  with  I^rtt 
Aberdeen,  with  whom  he  had  always  been  on  parttcuUrly  good  tcriiii. 
But  his  life  was  spent  chiefly  at  Val  Richer  with  hit  family,  the 


272 


The  Gentkmans  Magazine. 


routine  being  varied  by  visits  to  Paris.  His  English  friends  who  had 
the  privilege  of  being  entertained  I^  him  at  his  Normandy  home 
speak  of  him  with  admiration  as  a  host.  Mrs.  Simpson  in  her 
interesting  volume  of  reminiscences'  describes  a  visit  she  paid  to 
Val  Richer  in  i860  with  her  fatlier,  Mr.  Nassau  Senior.  Guizot, 
she  said,  lived  "  in  patriarchal  fashion^  surrounded  by  his  children  and 
grandchildren,  and  waited  upon  by  his  old  senants  and  their 
descendants." 

Among  other  literary  work  he  began  to  write  his  memoirs  in 
1857,  and  liad  them  published  in  his  lifetime,  for  the  excellent  reason 
which  he  gives  in  his  opening  chapter:  "I  publish  my  memoirs 
while  I  am  still  here  to  answer  for  what  I  write." 

He  always  retained  the  liveliest  interest  in  English  affairs.  Mr. 
Nassau  Senior,  who  saw  a  good  deal  of  him  in  Paris,  describes  how 
he  would  talk  of  nothing  but  English  politics  when  he  went  to  call 
on  him  one  day  in  the  spring  of  1853.  On  one  occasion  h«  gave 
Mr.  Senior  his  opinion  of  the  EngUsh  as  he  found  them  in  society. 
He  said  :  '*  I  am  going  to  give  the  English  some  praise  and  a  little 
blame.  No  people  have  more  of  the  elements  of  good  company, 
more  knowledge,  or  imagination,  or  taste,  or  humour,  or  wit.  But 
they  are  too  reserved  or  too  indolent  to  make  the  best  use  of  them  : 
they  want  free  trade  in  ideas,  and  often  substitute  words  for  them. 
From  time  to  time  I  have  Uved  in  an  English  country  neighliourhood  ; 
in  every  house  I  ate  the  same  dinner  and  heard  the  same  conversatioru"  * 

When  the  Franco- Prussian  War  broke  out  Guizot  was  shocked 
and  distressed  beyond  measure,  and  asks  in  a  Icttur:  "Which  of  the 
two  Governments  and  nations  Is  the  most  entirely  deficient  in  good 
sense  and  morality  ?  In  truth  1  should  find  it  hard  to  say."  The 
disasters  that  followed  struck  him  to  the  heart,  and  he  fell  ill,  but 
recovered  sufficiently  to  resume  his  writing.  He  was  much  saddened 
by  family  bereavements  and  the  death  of  many  friends,  but  these 
losses  only  made  him  cling  the  closer  to  those  who  were  left.  He 
never  grew  moody  or  sohtary  in  his  habits.  When  very  busy  with 
work  he  would  every  now  and  then  leave  his  study  and  seek  out  one 
of  his  daughters  saying,  "1  have  come  for  a  little  talk,"  and  after 
chatting  pleasantly  for  awhile  would  return  (refreshed  to  his  labours. 
He  completed  the  fourth  volume  of  his  "  History  of  France  "  in  the 
summer  of  1874.  This  was  his  last  effort ;  after  that  be  succumbed 
to  liis  increasing  infirmities,  and  died  peacefully  in  tbc  same  year  at 
the  age  of  eighty-seven. 

CEORCIANA  HriX. 


Mtmy  Utmmitt  */  Maty  Peefit, 


'  Cemftrtatimts.     Masan  Scxiiur. 


273 


CASTAIV^YS,  AND    THEIR 
INFLUENCE    ON    POPULATION. 


NAAHGATION  naturally  Iiad  its  origin  on  the  classic  waters  of 
the  Mediterranean,  where  the  conditions  are  especially  favour- 
able for  coastal  excursions ;  and  probably  the  earliest  efforts  of  man- 
kind to  rule  the  waves  were  due  as  much  to  accident  as  to  design. 
Horace,  in  that  delightful  ode  addressed  to  the  tiny  craft  about  to 
hconvcy  Virgil  to  the  sunny  shores  of  the  Grecian  Isles,  declaimed 
'against  the  man  who  first  ventured  to  woo  fickle  fortune  in  a  fragile 
barque  upon  the  stormy  sea.     The  mariner's  compass  was  then 
unknown,  the  ships  were  sorry  specimens  of  the  naval  architect's  art, 
,  the  methods  of  navigation  had  little  to  commend  them,  and  the 
ay  toilers  of  those  narrow  waters  never  willingly  lost  sight  of  the 
*land.     Homer,  in  the  "Odyssey,"  reveals  the  andent  mariners  ten- 
tatively and  loilfuUy  following  the  coast,  or  stolidly  steering  by  the 
scintillating  stars  on  a  clear  night      Invariably  they  hailed  with 
r  unfeigned  thankfulness  the  rosy-fingered  dawn.      Occasionally,  how- 
^evcr,  the  fates  were  unkind,  and  compelled  them  seaward,  in  spite  of 
themselves,  to  learn  that  the  sea  but  joins  the  nations  it  divides. 

The  Trojan  war  was  the  greatest  achievement  of  the  Heroic  age ; 

and  the  varied  experience  of  the  Heroes  will  serve  to  demonstrate  the 

truth  of  the  contention  that  accident  waa  quite  an  important  factor 

in  determining  the  earliest  of  voyages.      Returning  exultant  from  the 

reduction  of  Troy,  the  Grecian  fleets  were  widely  scattered  by  a 

I  savage  storm  that  threatened  dire  destruction  to  all  under  its  iii- 

^  fluence.  inasmuch  as  the  Homeric  ship  was  but  an  open  boat  fitted 

with  one  mast,  decked  over  only  at  either  end,  and  utterly  unsuitable 

,,i6r  striving  successfully  against  the  combined  forces  of  Aeolus  and 

'  Neptune.     Remote  from  the  land,  the  friendly  pole-star  hidden  from 

view  by  the  angry  clouds,  the  condition  of  the  small  craft  careering 

^before  the  gale  was  eminently  critical.     Such  as  survived  the  rude 

Iboffeting  by  wind  and  by  sea  were  wrecked  on  unknown  shores. 

fXTlysses,  the  bravest  of  the  brave,  wandered  wearily  through  many  an 

unexplored  region  for  more  than  a  decade,  quite  unable  to  regain  his 

VOL.  ccxci.    NO,  3049*  i; 


274 


Tke  Gentleman's  Magazitu. 


native  land  even  if  he  had  known  its  geographical  posiiion.  Aeneas, 
son  of  Anchiscs  and  Venus,  reached  the  coast  of  Libya  where  Dido 
reigned,  if  we  may  believe  Virgil's  pleasant  passages.  The  unhappy 
queen  received  the  wanderer  with  affection,  only  to  find  that  her 
charms  proved  less  potent  than  his  nostalgia.  In  historic  times  we 
have  Sl  Paul  driven  out  of  his  course  by  a  storm  in  a  complaining 
craft,  crowded  with  two  hundred  and  seventy-six  despairing  persons, 
and  eventually  arriving  at  Malta,  or,  as  some  assert,  an  island  on  the 
coast  of  Dalmatia  in  the  Adriatic.  In  every  instance  the  tempest* 
tossed  travellers  doubtless  shuddered  at  the  stormy  sea,  but  were 
thrust  Ihilhcr  as  cxpiotcrs  by  circumstances  over  which  they  lud  not 
the  least  control 

The  liardy  Norsemen,  whose  home  of  yore  was  ever  on  the  foam- 
ing sea,  quite  accidentally  discovered  North  America  long  before 
Christopher  Columbus  was  bom.  Sailing  slowly  from  headland  to 
headland  of  Norway's  rocky  and  indented  shores,  in  clumsy  craft  that 
were  quite  unmanageable  unless  the  wind  was  fair  and  moderate,  the 
virile  Vikings  Iiad  precedence  forced  upon  them.  Gales  drove  them 
wcstwardover  an  unknown  sea  until  their  straining  eyes  were  gladdened 
by  the  sight  of  what  is  now  known  as  Iceland.  There,  like  Aeneas 
and  his  followers,  in  a  far  fairer  land,  they  sought  the  green  sward  to 
rest  their  wearied  limbs.  There  they  foimded  a  colony !  Once  dis- 
covered, communication  was  maintained  despite  Uie  very  vague  ideas 
of  these  intrepid  sea-rovers  with  respect  to  navigation,  even  though 
the  heavenly  bodies  tn  the  celestial  concave  invited  every  confidence. 
On  one  occasion  they  sailed  past  Iceland,  probably  during  foggy 
weather,  and  arrived,  after  many  searchings  of  heart,  at  Greenland. 
Westward  the  star  of  empire  was  wending  its  way  by  accident  rather 
than  by  design.  Eric  the  Red  founded  a  colony  there  xn  986 ;  and, 
a  few  years  later,  his  son  Leif  sailed  southwards,  as  far  as  the  forty- 
first  parallel  of  north  latitude,  in  order  to  test  the  reports  of  his 
countrymen  who  had  been  driven  thither  by  storms  and  painfully 
worked  their  way  back  to  Greenland.  After  the  naanner  of  his  race 
Leif  founded  a  colony  somewhere  lietwecn  the  positions  now  occu- 
pied by  Boston  and  New  York,  and  allotted  to  it  a  name  which  may 
be  freely  translated  as  Vincland,  Communication  between  Norway 
and  North  America  was  maintained  for  about  three  centuries  \  )'et 
the  very  existence  of  the  American  Continent  appears  to  have 
become  legendary  when  Columbus  set  out  to  win  a  way  to  Far 
Cathay.  The  Shellands,  Iceland,  and  Greenland,  were  but  stepping- 
Btones  for  the  Norse  rovers,  driven  westward  from  their  native  land 
in  blissful  ignorance  of  what  the  fates  had  in  store  for  ihcm.     A 


Casimwat^  mad  thnr  Imfianta  em  Pi^^mJktt^m.  375 


cfaaahej  V**^'**'  emti  tfaae  x  ssiS  tcsscZ  vxs  &7rea  eat  torn 

frOBI  IlBUIH^  SB^  XSff  ft  dcnOQS  OCR  9B0SSQC  ^*^**-**'.  CftSltXOOf 

readied  dtfaaViE^na  or  Ffanifa.  There  is  sSso  a  stocr  afloat  that  Sir 
Waber  BaTfTg*'  famid  tbe  natzies  of  TiiglEua  ^leifcif^  Critic  (jone 
flnentlj  ^  ^mA  Ais  sost  be  aoc^ited  with  eicij  luuif.. 

KeoeDt  apeneoces  go  6r  to  sappoit  the  mficrcDce  dint  csstavns 
have  often  beea  tihe  pioneea  of  geogiaphical  dacoray.  In  zS&S^ 
tbe  Olftiwii'ai,  a  snuD  aaft  of  t«entr-ooe  toos^  actoaUf  daftcd 
from  S*****""**  to  Nonrsf  vhfa  OD^f  a  voman  on  boaid.  Tlie  Tessd 
tnded  among  the  acattoed  gnxxp  of  islands,  manned  bracxrwof 
tbxe^  vfaoh  on  diis  oocasioo,  sooght  the  solid  shme  predpitatelj 

* >*<iMt*ij  she  itianded  near  Lenrv^    Whether  the  trio  focgot 

die  woman  pasaenger,  <k  jg"**^  *^  ^(^  ™  *  zecUess  rush  for  the 
boat,  is  not  quite  dear.  Soon  the  Coimmh'iit  floated  off  the  bank, 
and  die  old  lady  fbmid  hersdf  monardi  of  all  she  sonreyed,  with 
eroy  piospect  of  a  watery  gnrei  An  easterly  gale  drore  die  gallant 
litde  vernd  wdl  to  die  westward  ontil  Iceland  was  apparently  in 
ri^t.  Then  the  wind  shifted  to  the  westward,  and  the  CoArinfcW 
drifted  towards  Nonray.  She  deared  the  dangerons  reefe  of  Vigero 
Fjord  in  a  marreUoos  manner,  threading  channels  which  eroke  tbe 
ntmost  ddn  of  a  local  pilot  to  avoid  die  merdiant-marring  rocks, 
and  e?entnally  readied  the  shore.  The  fisher-folk  happened  to  sight 
the  stianded  vessd ;  and,  at  great  risk,  got  the  famished  and  half- 
froaen  castaway  safely  to  land.  In  Febmary,  1893,  ^  hundred  and 
fifty  miles  north-west  of  Mayo,  Cape  Verde  Islands,  the  Finland 
barqoe  Im^f  Captain  Bystrom,  e^ted  a  timely  rescue  from  a 
felucca,  the  IJtn's  Amigos^  which  had  sailed  from  Santiago,  C.V.,  for 
Mayo,  had  been  driven  from  the  land  by  a  gale,  and  was  quite 
unable  to  get  back  again,  being  destitute  of  a  mariner's  compass  and 
a  navigator.  These  castaways  consisted  of  a  crew  of  four,  and  six 
ptssengeis  (including  two  girls),  not  one  of  whom  had  tasted  water 
or  food  for  a  week.  Captain  Bystrom  kindly  received  them  on 
board  his  barque ;  left  the  felucca  to  her  fate ;  ministered  to  every 
want  of  tbe  castaways,  and  landed  them  at  Martinique,  a  fortnight 
later,  none  the  worse  for  so  perilous  a  passage.  In  July,  1895,  ^^^^ 
hundred  miles  north  of  Bermuda,  the  British  steamer  BtHardtn  fell 
in  with  a  small  sloop  of  four  tons,  the  Rosie^  which  had  been  blown 
to  sea  while  attempting  to  sail  from  one  island  to  another  of  the 
"vexed  Bermoothes."  On  board  this  tiny  craft  were  Joseph 
Dioniso,  his  wife,  and  two  children,  who  had  been  a  week  without 
either  food  or  water.  The  master  of  the  steamer  supplied  them 
with  the  necessaries  of  life,  gave  them  the  course  to  steer  for  New 


376 


Tlie  GentUnian  5  Magazine, 


York,  and  they  arrived  there  witliout  further  mishap  in  a  few  days. 
This  castaway  family  went  to  pay  a  visit  to  a  next  door  neighbour. 
IS  it  were,  remained  on  llie  stormy  sea  suffering  severely  for  more 
than  a  month,  travelled  over  many  a  weary  league  in  their  curious 
craft,  and  eventually  reached  a  huge  city  of  which  thej'  knew  nothing 
except  by  repute.  Hence  it  b  to  be  inferred  that  the  Viking  cast- 
aways did  not  accomplish  anything  more  man'ellous  than  the  weak 
woman  and  the  frightened  family  above  referred  to,  compelled  by 
boisterous  breezes  to  become  ocean  explorers  against  their  will. 
Similar  instances  of  castaways*  experiences  in  the  Atlantic  are  not 
far  to  seek. 

The  enormous  number  of  insignificant  tslcls,  strewn  lavishly  all 
over  the  Pacific  Ocean,  from  tropic  to  tropic,  afford  very  favourable 
conditions  for  persons  carried  out  to  sea  in  open  boats.  Doubtless 
many  of  the  pretty  Pacific  pinnacles  were  peopled,  in  the  first 
instance,  by  castaways  from  neighbouring  islets,  or  from  the  con* 
tinent  of  Asia,  The  aborigines  of  New  Zealand,  the  Maoris,  as  they 
are  termed,  hold  fast  to  a  tradition  that,  in  the  dim  and  distant  past, 
their  ancestors  came  in  capacious  canoes  from  a  place  knotrn  to 
them  as  Hawaiki,  which  is  supposed  to  be  identical  wiili  the  modem 
Hawaii  of  the  Sandwich  Islands.  Even  the  names  of  the  cumber- 
some canoes  have  been  piously  preserved  and  handed  down  from 
father  to  son  through  the  ages.  Among  them  arc  the  AoUa  ;  the 
Arawa,  which  reached  the  land  first,  having  on  board  the  principal 
idols;  the  Tainui,  and  others  of  less  renown.  Some  palatial  passenger 
steamsliips  belonging  to  the  Shaw,  Savill,  and  Albion  Company, 
trading  between  London  and  New  Zealand,  are  actually  named  after 
the  legendary  canoes  of  the  old-time  Maoris,  If  only  those  un- 
tutored savages  could  revisit  the  scenes  of  their  former  exploits  from 
the  shades,  perhaps  the  most  marvellous  creations  of  modem  men 
would  appear  to  their  eyes  to  be  those  stately  steamsliips  moving 
swiftly  through  the  water  without  oars  and  without  sails— «<•  remis 
nee  veils,  as  the  Institute  of  Marine  Engineers  expresses  iL  The 
natives  of  the  Pacific  islets  are  dauntless  seamen,  and  make  voyages 
of  very  many  miles  in  quaint  conceits  of  outrigger  boats,  fastened 
together  solely  with  small  cord  made  from  the  husks  of  cocoa-nuUt. 
Kotzebue,  the  famous  Russian  mivigator,  in  the  opening  years  of 
the  nineteenth  century,  picked  up  some  natives  of  the  CaroUne  Islands 
who  were  two  hundred  miles  from  their  homes,  having  been  im- 
pelled seaward  in  a  canoe  and  unable  to  return.  Captain  Beechy, 
R.N.,  fell  in  with  tired  Tahittans  some  six  hundred  miles  away  from 
their  native  land,  driven  seaward  by  a  careering  c)dooc    Asolititry 


Castau^aySf  and  ikiir  Influ$nc^  on  Population,  s;; 


njuD,  similarly  imperiUed,  succeeded  in  reaching  the  Friendly 
UUnds  after  a  risky  run  of  four  hundred  miles.  The  American  ship 
/csfph  Spinney,  while  crossing  the  Pacific  Ocean,  with  the  nearest 
dry  land  distant  at  least  two  hundred  miles,  picked  up  an  old  chief 
and  five  other  despairing  natives  of  the  Pellcw  Islands  adrift  on  a 
lofujy  sea  in  an  open  boat  Thc>'  had  set  sail  intent  on  pa)ing  a 
call  cm  some  friends  of  a  neighbouring  islet,  had  to  run  before  a 
gale,  and  were  then  enduring  the  eighteenth  day  of  compulsory 
stanration.  Temporarily  insane,  consequent  on  thirst  and  himger, 
they  had  just  arrived  at  an  agreement  to  slay  the  son  of  the  chief,  a 
youth  of  sixteen  summers,  in  order  thai  his  body  should  provide 
sustenance  for  his  famished  fellows.  Fortunately  they  were  spared 
this  last  resource  of  suffering  humanity,  inasmuch  as  their  every 
want  was  satisfied  on  board  the  Joseph  Spinney.  Notwithstanding 
kind  nursing  and  good  food,  the  chief  and  one  man  died.  The 
stuvivors  were  taken  to  Japan,  whither  the  rescuing  vessel  was 
bound. 

Pitcairn  Island  was  uninhabited  when  discovered  in  1767. 
Twenty-two  years  after,  however,  nine  of  the  mutineers  from  the 
Bounty,  together  with  four  men  and  eleven  women  of  Otaheite, 
founded  a  settlement  there  far  from  civilisation.  Meanwhile  Captain 
Bligh  and  his  faithful  few  managed  to  reach  Timor  after  covering  a 
distance  of  twelve  hundred  leagues,  in  open  boats,  with  black  care 
behind  the  helmsman  all  the  way.  The  castaways  on  Pitcaim 
Island,  or  rather  their  descendants,  remained  undiscovered  by  the 
outside  world  for  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century.  Then  the  news  leaked 
out  Qiat  an  American  whaleship,  under  CapUiin  Folgcr,  had  visited 
the  island  in  1808.  He  had  expected  to  find  that  the  inhabitants  of 
this  solitary  spot  were  savages,  perhaps  cannibals,  and  was  most 
agreeably  surprised  by  a  visit  from  civilised  residents  who  spoke 
English  fluently.  In  1814,  the  year  af^er  Captain  Folger's  dis- 
closure, the  island  was  visited  by  two  British  frigates,  ihe  Briton  and 
the  Tagus^  quite  by  accident.  Sir  Thomas  Staircs,  commanding  the 
Briton,  reported  his  curious  find  to  the  Admiralty,  and  awarded 
great  praise  to  the  "venerable  old  man,  John  Adams,"  the  only 
surviving  Englishman  of  the  Bounty  mutineers,  who  landed  00 
Pitcaim  Island  flushed  with  their  successful  revolt  against  tl'.c 
authority  of  Captain  Bligh.  The  varied  experience  of  that  stolid 
.Scotch  sailor,  Alexander  Selkirk,  which  served  r>anicl  Defoe  as  the 
foundation  on  which  to  build  his  inimitable  and  imperishable 
•*  Robinson  Crusoe,"  was  all  obtained  on  Juan  Femandes,  an  island 
of  the  South  Pacific,  where  he  was  for  some  time  a  castaway.    "  Was 


I 


278 


The  Gentleman's  Ma^acine, 


iherc  anything  written  by  mere  man,"  said  Dr.  Johnson,  "  that  was 
wished  longer  by  its  readers,  excepting  '  Don  Quixote,'  '  Robiruon 
Crusoe,'  and  the  •  Pilgrim's  Progress  *  ?  " 

In  1832  a  Chinese  junk  driftedlright  across  the  Pacific  Ocean  to 
Vancouver  Island,  and  another  to  the  Sandwich  Islands,  A  third, 
bound  from  the  Loo  Choo  Islands  to  Shanghai,  was  wandering  for  ten 
tiresome  moons,  as  the  pigtailcd  mariners  poetically  expressed  the 
devious  drift,  and  eventually  reached  Baker's  Island,  a  small  guano 
deposit.  Seven  of  her  nine  men  bad  succumbed  to  slow  starvation 
and  dire  despair.  All  three  of^ these  junks  were  of  the  type  common 
to  the  China  coast  for  many  a  century.  Each  had  a  staring  eye 
painted  in  a  prominent  position  on  the  bow,  so  that  she  might  (ind  a 
pleasant  path  across  the  trackless  main  ;  for,  in  the  broken  English 
of  the  almond-eyed  Celestial,  '  No  eye,  no  see,  no  sabbee."  Such 
instances  of  vessels  driven  seaward  by  unfavourable  gales,  despite  the 
efforts  of  their  crews,  who  could  not  return  owing  to  ignorance  of 
navigation,  must  be  well  weighed  when  endeavouring  to  determine 
the  probable  origin  of  the  dwellers  on  the  infinite  number  of  islets 
dotted  all  over  the  Pacific  Ocean. 

Quite  recently  several;ship3'  crews  have  suffered  severely  as  cast- 
aways on  uninhabited  islands.  The  barque  IVandering  Afimtrel 
stranded  on  Midway  Island,  and  all  hands  had  to  eke  out  a 
precarious  existence  there  for'six  months.  Then  the  mate,  a  sailor, 
and  a  young  Chinaman,  left  in  an  open  boat  to  seek  succour  at  the 
Sandwich  Islands.  These  three  were  never  heard  of  e^aiu.  Eight 
more  months  of  leaden-footed  hours  passed  away  down  the  avenue 
of  time ;  the  ship  bad  been  given  up  as  totally  lost  with  every  soul 
on  board,  and  the  underwriters  had  long  since  paid  her  insurance, 
when  the  schooner  Noma  happened  to  observe  tlic  castaways' 
signals,  and  took  them  to  Honolulu.  Five  men  had  died  on  the 
island  during  the  weary  wait  of  fourteen  months  ;  but  the  captain's 
wife  and  four  young  cliUdrcn  were  among  the  sur>ivors.  Au 
American  barque,  the  Te^vhesbtny  L.  Sweat,  on  her  way  from 
Australia  to  China,  was  wrecked  on  one  of  the  CaroUne  Groupdurif^ 
a  hurricane.  Her  cosmopolitan  crew  lived  there  among  the  savages 
for  over  seven  months,  receiving  the  moral  support  and  active 
assistance  of  an  English  castaway,  one  Charles  Irons,  who  had  been 
four  years  a  resident,  had  t&kcxi  to  himself  seven  wives,  and  attained 
to  high  rank  in  the  chiePs  court  Tirtd  of  involuntary  exile,  these 
sad  seafarers  at  length  bade  farewell  to  their  primitive  hosts,  and 
sailed  away  in  boats  and  canoes  until  picked  up  by  the  barque 
JUfirmiNf  S/ar,  after  a  perilous  passage  of  ovts  one  thousand  nilci, 


CastawaySi  and  their  Infiu€*u€  on  Population.  279 

and  carried  to  Honolulu.  An  iron  British  barque,  the  Henry  Jam^t 
proceeding  from  Australia  to  California,  struck  on  a  coral  reef  near 
Palmyra  Island,  and  became  a  wreck.  Her  crew  and  passengers 
sought  safety  on  this  lonely  place.  Fearing  that  the  two  ladies  and 
the  four  little  children  would  perish  if  help  were  long  delayed,  the 
chief  officer,  Donald  Macdonald,  volunteered,  with  four  sailors,  to  set 
out  for  Samoa  in  an  open  boat  in  order  to  obtain  assistance.  On 
Palmyra  Island  tliere  were  found  the  ruiiis  of  six  huts,  evidently  due 
to  the  labours  of  prc\ious  castaways  j  cocoa-nuts,  eels,  birds,  eggs, 
land-crabs,  and  pepper-grass  were  plentiful,  and  sufficient  water  was 
found  to  satisfy  the  demand.  Illegible  inscriptions  were  noticed,  cut 
deep  into  some  of  tlie  trees,  but  defaced  by  the  relentless  hand  of 
time.  With  the  exception  of  leeches,  which  proved  painfully 
rmvenous  after  rain,  and  dysentery,  all  went  well  on  the  island  until 
the  American  steamship  Mariposa  came  and  rescued  the  castaways, 
\xi  compliance  with  the  retiuest  of  the  dauntless  volunteers  who  had 
reached  their  objective  point  after  a  terrible  trip  of  thirteen  hundred 
mites,  which  occupied  nineteen  days.  One  volunteer  had  sucked 
his  own  blood  to  quench  a  maddening  thirst,  others  had  eaten  their 
boots  and  the  telescope  cover,  and  all  five  had  to  be  carried  ashore 
on  arrival  at  Samoa  owing  to  extreme  weakness. 

In  July,  1875,  the  sailing  ship,  Stralhmore^  of  Dundee,  struck  on 
an  outlying  reef  of  the  Crozet  Islands,  while  on  the  passage  from 
London  to  New  Zealand,  with  eager  hearts  and  willing  hands  for  the 
"  new  and  happy  land."  Loss  of  life  occurred,  and  the  sorrowftil 
survivors  passed  a  Robinson  Crusoe  existence  on  a  desolate  island, 
under  an  inclement  sky,  for  nearly  seven  months.  Nine  years  ago, 
the  iron  barque  Comjxtdre  caught  fire  in  mid-ocean,  and  was  after- 
wards purposely  put  on  shore  ot  Auckland  Isbnd  in  order  to  save 
the  lives  of  all  hands.  There  the  castaways  remained  for  over  one 
hundred  days.  Among  them  was  an  apprentice,  E.  Roberts, 
apparently  born  10  be  drowned,  although  not  widiout  a  serious 
struggle.  After  reaching  England  again  he  was  appointed  to  a 
veaid,  which  was  run  down  in  the  Channel  a  few  days  from  home, 
and  be  happened  to  be  among  the  seven  saved-  The  next  voyage 
he  accomplished  without  mishap ;  but,  on  the  fourth  voyage,  the 
vessel  was  lost  on  Tristan  d'Acunha,  and  the  unfortunate  Roberts 
was  drowned  with  two  of  the  crew.  In  1898,  H.M.S.  Thntsh  took 
off  some  castaways  from  Tristan  d'Acunha,  escaped  from  the 
wrecked  ship  GUnhuntiy^  who  had  been  guests  of  the  poor  islanders 
for  five  months. 

Consequent  on  several  shipwrecks  on  \!tvt  \s\a.Ti'i\  ^V^tXtwJt 


280 


The  GeniiemavLS  Magazine. 


Southern  Ocean,  between  t!ie  meridian  of  ihc  Cape  of  Good  Hope 
and  Australia,  there  have  been  established  depots  of  food  and 
clothing  for  castaways  on  several  of  the  most  important  of  those 
isolated  dangers  to  navigation.  On  Hog  Island,  Crozet  Group,  the 
depdt  is  a  hut  near  the  landing-place.  There  the  French  war-vcssd 
JUi  Mcurihe  left  a  ton  of  preserved  beef,  half  a  ton  of  biscuit,  three- 
quarters  of  a  hundredweight  of  sardines  in  oil,  twenty  blankets, 
fifteen  pairs  of  shoes  and  trousers,  all  carefully  packed ;  together 
with  two  spears,  two  hatcliets,  and  some  cooking  utensils.  At 
Possession  Island  the  depots  are  also  huts,  in  which  were  deposited,, 
by  the  British  warship  Comus,  a  sufficiency  of  provisions  to  last  fifty 
people  for  fifty  days ;  together  with  stockings,  shoes,  and  jerseys. 
On  the  islands  of  Amsterdam,  St.  Paul,  and  Kerguelen,  the  French 
u-ar-vessel  Eure  established  depots  containing  necessaries  of  all 
kinds  for  castaways,  no  matter  wliat  their  nationality  might  be.  At 
Amsterdam  Island,  in  a  large  cavern  on  a  hill-side,  there  are  avail- 
able, for  castaways,  supplies  of  beef,  biscuit,  shirts,  underclothes, 
blankets,  and  some  matches  enclosed  in  a  metal  bo.x  hermetically 
scaled  There  are  also,  in  the  same  cave,  several  cots,  a  cooking  pot, 
and  dry  wood,  left  by  fishermen  who  occasionally  visit  the  island. 
Cabbage  and  celery,  fish  and  lobsters  abound.  At  St.  Paul's  Island 
the  dep6i  is  in  a  rough  stone  hut  surmounted  by  a  thatched  roof. 
Food  and  clothing  in  thirteen  barrels  are  in  evidence  there.  At 
Kerguelen  Island  the  depot  is  in  a  cave,  indicated  Tjy  a  twelve-foot 
high  cairn,  and  consists  of  a  like  quantity  of  food  and  clothing. 
Each  of  these  three  depots  is  clearly  marked  out  by  a  board  bearing 
the  following  legend  : — "  France.  Vivres,  V6temcnts  pour  naufiBge& 
Ettre^  Janvier,  1893." 

Nearer  New  Zealand  there  are  also  depots  for  castaways  on 
several  of  the  islands.  At  Kermadec  Islands  there  are  two,  each  in 
a  small  iron  shed  fitted  with  spouting  and  a  tank  to  catch  fresh  water. 
Food,  medicine,  tools,  and  clothing,  are  plentifully  present.  At  the 
Snares  Islands  and  the  Antipodes  Islands  the  dq)Uts  are  in  huts. 
On  the  principal  islands  of  the  Auckland  Group  are  three  depdts, 
one  in  a  square  wooden  house ;  and  a  lifeboat  has  been  placed  on 
each  of  the  three  islands,  Enderby,  Adams,  and  Rose.  There  is 
also  a  dep6t  at  Campbell  Island.  All  are  indicated  by  prominent 
finger-posts.  A  Government  steamer  visits  Kermadec  Islands  once 
a  year,  and  the  Snares,  Bounty,  Antipodes,  Auckland,  and  Camp- 
bell Islands  twice  a  year,  for  the  purpose  of  rescuing  any  castaways^ 
•nd  replacing  such  stores  as  may  have  become  unfit  for  issue. 

SimiUfly  satisfactory  dcpou  are  estab^hcdun  Vancouver  Island, 


Ctuiaways,  and  ihtir  Influence  o%  Pcpulaiiom,  281 

.at  Gqie  Bale  Ligjbtlioase,  and  Cannanal  Ughthoas&  Nodce- 
boatds  are  erected  around  die  coast,  setting  foctfa  infionnation  far 
cutaways  irn>fi.liiig  Ibe  directioo  and  tbe  disunrr  of  the  nearest 
depdl^  and  also  <tf  the  nearest  Indian  vilbge  where  assistanoe  can  be 
obtained.  In  the  accredited  GorcnuDent  pabUcations  isaied  to 
manoen  by  the  sevoal  maxitinie  natioas  there  are  gi?en  detailed 
desa^ptkns  of  every  snch  reAige  far  castaways^  and  its  exact 
geugtaphinal  position. 

Sailix%  ships  cibea  come  to  grief  when  Tentorii^  dirough  Torres 
Strain  diat  naiiow  waterw^  dividing  Aostrdia  from  New  Gainea, 
where  coral  reeb  abound ;  and  steps  were  taken  by  the  uithorities 
to  enme  both  the  necessaries  of  life  and  shelter  to  the  castaway 
crews.  At  Booby  Island,  not  iax  from  Cape  York,  so  long  ago  as 
1857,  H.1C.S.  Torch  left  a  small  sapfdy  of  perishable  articles,  sadi 
as  tea,  sugar,  and  tobacco;  casks  of  bee^  po^  and  bread  were 
carefoUy  stowed  away  in  a  cave  dearly  indicated  by  a  flagstaff;  and 
a  receptacle  arranged  with  shdves  and  drawers  containii^  litHary 
bo(^  pens,  ink,  writing-paper,  and  a  letter-bag  for  the  Postmaster* 
General,  Sydney,  the  whole  being  covered  with  a  tarpaulin  mazked 
"  Post  OflSce."  Passing  ships  would  heave-to,  and  send  a  boat  on 
shore  to  replenish  the  small  stores ;  make  a  record  in  a  book  left  f<»: 
the  particular  purpose,  and  take  away  any  letters,  to  deliver  them  at 
the  next  port 

Sufficient  has  been  written  to  indicate  the  influence  that  casta- 
ways have  exercised  on  the  peopling  of  islands,  and  therefore  on  the 
lawignage  spoken ;  as  also  the  earnest  endeavours  made  of  recent 
years,  both  by  England  and  by  France,  to  ensure  that  timely  succour 
shall  be  available  always  for  castaways  on  isolated  islands  of  the  lone 
Southern  Ocean  and  elsewhere. 

WILLIAM  ALUNGBAM. 


sSi 


Ttte  Gtntiefiians  Magazine, 


ELEMENTARY  SCHOOLS 
IN  JAPAN. 

IT  is  only  lhirty-(hree  years  since,  in  1868,  Japan  passed 
through  a  very  thorough,  though  peaceful,  revolution,  known 
as  the  "Meiji,"  or  "the  era  of  illustrious  rule."  That  was  in  a 
measure  the  result  of  the  opening  of  the  country  to  foreign  nations; 
but  it  was  really  the  crisis  and  consummation  of  a  long  period  of 
silent  preparation.  One  of  the  most  important  of  the  changes  which 
followed  in  its  train  was  the  oi^anisation  of  a  complete  system  of 
education,  reaching  from  the  University  downwards  to  the  remotest 
village  schools. 

Wc  propose  to  offer  our  readers  a  description  of  some  of  the 
chief  features  of  the  primary  as  well  as  of  the  higher  schools,  as 
far  as  we  have  been  able  to  ascertain  them  from  the  Reports  of  the 
Japanese  Department  and  from  information  supplic*d  in  this  country 
by  natives  or  English  Missionaries. 

Education,  we  are  told,  attained  a  very  high  In-cl  in  ancient 
times,  declined  during  what  are  lo  us  the  Middle  Ages,  and  has  since 
revived  and  reached  its  present  efficiency  under  the  existing  Govem- 
menl.  Before  the  Revolution  the  higher  learning  was  confined  to 
the  Chinese  and  Japanese  classics,  and  elementary  education  did 
not  extend  beyond  the  three  R's.  In  X867  a  Provisional  Board  was 
established  at  Kyoto,  and  some  higher  schools,  already  formed  at 
Nagasaki,  Osaka,  and  other  towns,  were  reopened  on  a  better 
system,  and  under  more  competent  men,  invited  from  various 
districts  to  act  as  professors.  In  the  following  year  the  "  Shockoko," 
or  University,  became  the  central  authority;  but  in  iS7ian  Education 
Department  was  constituted  in  its  place  to  control  all  scholastic 
matters.  A  code  was  soon  afterwards  enacted.  Inspectors  and  other 
school  officers  were  appointed.  Normal  training  colleges  were 
opened,  and  gradually  the  present  system  was  evolved,  which  has 
since  been  extending  itself  more  and  more  widely  through  the 
Empire.  At  first  some  of  these  meaaurcs  proved  abortive  through 
lack  of  funds.  Seven  normal  colleges,  for  instance,  founded  in  the 
provinces,  besides  one  at  Tokio,  and  seven  *'  foreign  language 
jciiools^"  iiad  to  bo  dosed  for  thai  reason.    But  of  late  yean  the 


EUtittntary  Schools  in  Japan* 


country  bis  awakened  more  fally  to  its  obligations  in  the  matter  and 

great  advances  have   been  made.     Fifty-three  thousand    primary 

schools  were  at  first  proposed,  and  we  have  reason  to  believe  that 

more  than  half  that  number  have  been  built  and  are  now  actively  at 

fWorlL     A  few  years  since  it  was  stated  that  they  had  upwards  of  four 

millions  of  scholars,  of  whom  quite  one-fourth  were  girls.    Training 

colleges  for  teachers  have  been  also  established  in  most  parts  of  the 

|Country,  besides  middle  and  hij^hcr  grade  schools.    The  Japanese, 

rlikc  ourselves,  have  had  many  revised  and  re-re^'ised  codes,  for  they 

have  been  steadily  feeling  their  vtay  towards  the  standards  maintained 

in  European  countries  and  in  the  United  States.    Such  in  general 

seems  to  be  the  position.     Pursuing  our  inquiry  into  particulars,  wc 

irill  first  notice  what  has  been  done  in  the  more  elementary  schools. 

Although  in  1880  education  was  made  compulsory  for  all  children 

between  the  ages  of  six  and  fourteen,  school  fees  are  usually  charged. 

These  are  50  sen,  or  about  2^.  per  month  per  child,  but  only  half 

that  sum  is  required  from  poor  parents  who  cannot  afford  the  whole. 

Moreover,  when  there  are  more  than  two  or  three  of  school  age 

in  a  family  a  further  reduction  is  made.    The  elemental^-  course, 

.According  to  the  strict  letter  of  the  law,  should  extend  over  eight 

Pycars.    Still,  a  simpler  three  years'  course  is  allowed  in  districts  where, 

ftin  account  of  the  poverty  of  the  inhabitants,  the  complete  one 

cannot  be  supplied.    This  is  restricted  to  reading,  writing,  com- 

position  and  arithmetic,  the  last  subject  occupying  at  least  half  the 

time.    The  full  clemenlaiy  course  is  divided  into  two  grades,  the 

lower  for  children  from  six  to  nine  years  of  age,  the  higher  for 

those  from  ten  to  thirteen  inclusive.    The  lower  grade  comprises 

spelling,  reading,  writing,  arithmetic,  according  to  European  methods, 

morals,  conversation,  hygiene,  geography,  grammar  and  elementary 

science.      The  higher  gmde    embraces  also  writing    in    Chinese 

characters,   correspondence,    drawing,    natural    history,    geometry, 

chemistry,  and  physiology.     Such,  at  any  rate,  are  the  syllabuses 

■prescribed  by  the  Code.     How  far  all  these  subjects  arc  thoroughly 

'worked  out  we  are  not  in  a  position  to  say.     "  Multa,"  not "  Multum," 

would  seem  to  be  the  motto  of  these  educationists,  and  one  cannot 

but  fear  lest  quality  be  often  sacrificed  to  quantity,  unless  the  children 

of  the  poorer  classes  in  Japan  arc  more  Tecepti\-e  and  intelligent 

than  our  own.    The  attempt,  however,  to  do  so  much  is  highly 

creditable  to  this  highly  gifted  and  energetic  race,  and  will  lend  to 

raise  it  more  and  more  in  the  scale  of  civihscd  nations.     Still,  it 

should  be  added  that  a  certain  margin  of  discretion  is  left  to  the 

^3ocal  authorities  in  omitting  some  of  these  subjects,  when  drcum- 

Kitaoces  render  it  deiiirable.    There  are  also  schools  for  infants  fiom 


284 


The  GenlUmans  Magazim. 


Ihrcc  to  six  years  of  age,  where  ihe  Kindergarten  system  has  been 
partially  adopted.  In  these,  as  in  our  own,  amusing  occupations, 
which  tend  to  train  the  eye  and  hand,  are  provided,  such  as  stick-laying, 
building  with  bricks,  rings,  pins,  &c.  Simple  practical  Instruction 
is  giren  the  children,  "in  order,"  it  is  said,  "to  develop  bodily 
strength,  to  facilitate  home  education,  and  to  prepare  them  for  the 
elementary  schools." 

But  the  Japanese  are  not  content  with  establishing  primary 
schools.  They  have  for  many  j*ears  also  paid  much  attention  to 
higher  education.  Their  middle  schools,  whose  course  extends 
over  five  years,  are  designed  to  prepare  the  pupils  for  business  life 
and  ordinary  avocations.  These  are  maintained  in  each  Province 
at  the  public  cost  'llicir  syllabuses  include  Japanese  and  Chinese 
classics,  history,  geography,  English  Readers,  arithmetic,  geometry, 
algebra,  elementary  trigonometry,  chemistry,  and  other  physical 
sciences,  and  militar)'  drill.  The  high  schools  are  of  two  grades.  The 
curriculum  of  the  first  lasts  for  three  years  and  is  intended  for  youths 
preparing  for  the  University,  who  study  litCTaturc,  history,  phtlosopby, 
modern  languages,  law,  and  politics.  They  may  take  up  any 
particular  branch  of  study  which  they  wish  to  afterwards  pursue  with 
a  \'icw  to  their  degree.  The  second  grade  is  of  a  still  more 
advanced  kind,  and  the  course  extends  over  four  years.  In  all 
these  schools  fees  are  charged,  except  to  scholars  who  are  excep- 
tionally clever,  industrious,  and  persevering,  and  as  such  have  been 
selected  by  the  ko<ho  or  magistrate. 

One  most  important  branch  of  the  educational  system  remains 
to  be  noticed.  The  Japanese  are  now  thoroughly  alive  to  the 
necessity  of  carefully  training  teachers  for  their  schools.  At  first, 
in  consequence  of  the  lack  of  duly  qualified  native  professors,  they 
had  to  employ  foreigners,  often  English  or  American  Missionaries, 
for  this  purpose ;  and  since  many  of  these  having  at  the  time  an 
mpcrfect  grasp  of  the  language  of  the  country  had  to  give  instruc* 
tion  through  interpreters,  this  was  of  course  a  most  unsatisfactory 
arrangement.  So  the  authorities  have  since  spared  no  pains  or 
expense  in  providing  training  colleges,  with  practising  schools 
attached  to  them,  in  every  Province.  In  188S  there  were  46  of 
these  with  4,416  male  and  662  female  students;  but  the  niimben 
have  no  doubt  largely  increased  since  then,  though  we  have  do 
positive  information  on  the  subject.  The  general  course  of  study 
there  is  much  the  same  as  in  the  high  schools,  and  is  spread  over 
four  years.  In  the  last  year  special  attention  ts  also  given  to 
schoJastic  methods  and  practical  school  work.  No  fees  arc  cbaiiged 
— board,  Jodging,   dollies,  and  tttrjvVattt  T\W£&arfx  ts  well  m 


.&Mk^  m  /j(»BL.  sS; 


coDese;  btf  the  jv^g  woeibsx  2i«  jc  icaa^^-man.: 

■ohafaie fioeiBBd  fa^Sio.    Cgnnrarti 

mtiaa.  and  sc  iei|Hed  teoa  il  v^ia  vsoue 

<v  nmticBcs.     SiS,  i^  my  be  ^i«x  idicr  < 

Ac  f"«^*»*  of  the  Vc^maaat,  hf  de  Ak«^  pnnasd  Ah 

caa£data  fassc  sand  ai  wwlyifi.  iar  one  k»^  ^^  daeif] 

tberarenot  ndcr  r»a^  jcss  cfage,  x'l 

and  are  BOO^  »  ««■  «s  pbjsaSr  czaSficd    Tbe 

to  IwffC  afaott  afaaotee  poacr  o«a'  de  wj<hf'¥  s  wir*ihnir*wg 

tbdmlades  for  a  noaefa  al  a  tsne^  or  ia  deprnag  csemof  diar 

ootificatES  pnvnsooafiif ,  and  cvcei  Eaaiir,  nr  sBiBcaBciict  or  nfffttt 

of  dotf ,  r^'^'^j^  aa  ^ipcal  is  open  to  tbe  DtqaztBesc    Ob  tJhe 

oUkt  bud,  tttr*""  ■— <K«^iif*  Wrhf rfcfri  brtbat  of  impwlni^  aj^w,w<gj 

for    danentarf    Kfaook    bj    die   local  arrt^yrirs  and    far  die 

middle  and  Ugb  scboob  by  die  Dcpaitmatt.     Tbex  xiat  die 

dementaiy  adiools  mondilr  and  die  odxn  twice  cr  tfance  a  jctr,  >» 

order  to  give  advice  to  die  teacfaen  and  to  report  on  die  schools  to 

the  local  or  die  ccDtial  antfaonties.    There  is  also  a  local  comiaiitee 

for  eadi  adiool  on  which  the  male  teachers  sit,  and  this  cominittee 

admes  the  Jkacia  about  the  afiaiis  of  the  sdiooL    Besides  die  head 

certificated  teachers  there  are  in  tbe  larger  sdiools  assistants  who 

need  not  be  certificated.     For  any  number  up  to  serenty  one 

certificated  teacher  is  required;  for  more  than  seventy  up  to  one 

hundred  and  forty  one  certificated  master  or  mistress  with   an 

assistant  must  be  provided.     These  very  inadequate  requirements 

seem  to  indicate  a  paucity  of  fiiUy-qualificd  instructors.    Perhaps  this 

may  be  partly  due,  as  respects  the  elementary  schools,  to  the  very 

meagre  salaries,  if  judged  by  European  standards. 

The  scale  of  payments  to  ceitificated  teachers  is  divided  into  eight 
grades ;  and  their  ordinary  stipends  range  from  7  yen  per  month 
(that  is,  a  yen  being  equivalent  to  2s.  o^d.^  14s.  3^.)  to  15  yen  (or 
jQ2  y.  j^d.)  per  month  in  the  lower  elementary  schools,  whilst  tn 
the  higher  of  these  schools  they  rise  from  7  yen  to  30  monthly.  But 
in  the  middle  and  high  schools  the  payments  are  on  a  much  more 
liberal  scale,  ranging  from  20  to  150  yen  monthly  in  the  former,  and 
from  50  to  300  or  more  in  the  latter.  Probably  the  style  of  living  ii 
much  simpler  and  less  expensive  in  Japan  than  here.  Moreover, 
houses  or  house-rents  are  provided  for  the  teachers ;  and  honoraria 
are  added  at  the  end  of  the  year  for  good  general  work  or  tpeclal 
services.  Travelling  expenses  according  to  time  and  diitance  aro 
paid  for  in  the  case  of  removal  to  another  tchooL  Durln%  U!Lt\<«ia^ 
if  it  )aft9  no  more  than  A  month,  the  full  ulu7\icmC0cNOM^\Vllw 


386 


The  GentUmans  Alagazine. 


not  more  than  two  months,  the  half  is  allowed ;  but  after  that  it 
ceases  altogether.  After  twelve  years*  service  teachers  are  entitled  to 
a  pension,  and  at  their  death  their  relatives  receive  three  months' 
salary.  The  school  hours  are  much  the  same  as  in  England,  twenty- 
eight  per  week.  Besides  Sunday  (which  it  is  interesting  to  notice  is 
recognised  in  all  Government  institutions  as  a  weekly  rest)  and 
certain  special  heathen  festivals,  there  arc  forty-nine  holidays  in  the 
year,  which  may  be  fixed  for  the  summer  or  winter  according  to  the 
convenience  of  the  locality.  Altogether  there  would  seem  to  be 
considerable  attention  paid  by  the  Japanese  to  the  comfort  and 
well-being  of  their  public  teachers.  They  do  not  enjoy  as  much 
liberty  and  independence  as  do  our  English  teacho-s  ;  but  are  kept 
under  very  strict  and  often  summary  discipline.  Still  in  other 
respects  they  are  well  treated.  "  Autres  pays,  autres  moeurs ; "  and 
when  we  consider  for  how  short  a  time  the  present  system  has  been 
established,  and  how  imperfect  must  yet  be  the  civilisation  of  Japan, 
we  can  only  wonder  at  the  progress  adiieved  in  education  as  well  as 
in  other  matters,  and  may  anticipate  a  still  brighter  future  for  that 
Empire.  There  is  only  one  dark  blot  in  this  otherwise  promising 
system.  This  is  of  course  the  entire  absence  of  religious  teaching. 
■The  old  ancestral  faiths  arc  gradually  dying  out  amongst  the  more 
I  Cultured  and  intelligent  Japanese  ;  whilst  Christianity  is  by  stow 
degrees,  though  with  decided  marks  of  progress,  winning  its  way  into 
their  confidence.  Morality  is,  indeed,  taught,  but  of  no  rery  high 
order,  and  without,  it  is  to  be  feared,  much  practical  effect.  We  are 
told  on  the  authority  of  a  late  Prime  Minister  that  "  Education  Is 
non-religious  and  utilitarian,  and  educated  youths  are  mostly 
Agnostics  with  a  morality  that  is  loose  and  low."  In  some  plaoe.^ 
however,  as  we  have  seen,  the  Missionaries  have  been  allowed  to  teach 
English  in  the  State  schools,  and  so  have  gained  a  good  influence  over 
thescholars.  Schools  for  this  purpose  have  been  opened  at  Yokohama 
and  Nagasaki  under  their  charge,  besides  others  of  their  own,  inde- 
pendent of  State  control.  By  these  and  other  more  direct  means,  a 
purer  light  is  slowly,  butsurely,  spreading  amongst  this  wonderful  and 
highly  gifted  race ;  and  ere  long  wc  trust  that  theirs  will  become  io 
reality,  as  well  as  in  name,  "The  land  of  the  rising  sun." 

A  few  facts  connected  with  this  part  of  our  subject  may  interest 
our  readers.  In  1897  the  Japanese  Education  Department  took  a 
new  departure  by  sending  a  Japanese  lady  10  England  to  study  the 
educational  system  and  methods  of  our  country,  as  well  as  to  imprarc 
hcf  knowledge  of  our  language.  Special  arrangements  were  made 
by  the  authorities  for  her  to  liavtV  wxvh  a  lady  Missionary.  This 
My  was  asked  by  00c  ot  l^e  \ewi\a4  ^  fee  \v\^ci  -tVwA^jfcfc 


torn  to  pnce  ihcff  ffhnip 
English  better.     The 
t^tihe  tB#T*>*y  fiaaUy  dial 
the  viahor  wadd  be 
stood  cbs£  emj  dcBofafe 
led  to  a  figthg  e^ibfyaiiw 
uiDcst  Chrtw^  and  iMtaKW  ntm  nil 
better,  for  tber  are  sve  to  be  kiad  to  ber.~ 
tbea  besseir  a  tfaon^gh 
WaAxaxf  6aeMiA^atiertm&%had  oopiinoBd  ber  thtt  tbeie  ii 
one  ScpreiDe  Bcii^  that  she  bad  ie«d  a  good  deal  of  the  Kev 
cnt,  bat  dkl  not  ytt.  andenland  its  irarhtnB      Sdn  sbe 
iaoaniioMlotaow Aetrmhtfaat Aegesfniiid  to  be  cfcry 
that  dnriog  ber  ¥isit  to  Kngbwi  tfaraqgh  ber  imamune  intb 
,  earnest  peopie^  abe  would  sain  deanr  oonictioiiaaboK 
1  subjects;  andtbat  after  ber  rem  faooM  sbe  wodd  h«>e  a 
'  infioeaoe  over  ber  popAL    It  is  «dl  to  add  that  tbe  iottitQ- 
^tioD  to  wfakfa  she  belonged  vas  a  tcaimng  school  far  **«'^*t^,  aod 
that  on  account  of  ber  b^h  rbaririer  and  abiUties  she  w»  lelected 
'  this  special  woriL    Soch  instances  are  not  infrequent,  bat  occur 
tme  to  tznie  to  cheer  the  beaits  of  the  Misnonaries.    In  the 
dtf  of  Tokushiroa  it  was  reported  by  tbe  CM.S.  that  two  pabUc 
Lscbool-boys  were  baptited  after  careful  instmctioo,  and  that  several 
I  others  were  studying  the  Bible  under  tbe  Missionancs.    They  would 
probably  cany  the  knowledge  thus  received  to  their  parents  and 
homes.      Another,  a  boy  of  about  fourteen  years  of  age,   being 
edocaied  in  a  middle  school  of  his  town,  came  at  fir^t  to  a  Mission- 
ary to  lean)  English,  became  gradually  interested  in  the  Gospel,  and 
.eventually  a  believer  in  Christ,  :md  then  endeavoured  to  lead  his 
'achool-fellows  to  Him.     Older  sludenti,  intended  for  the  University 
atTc^io,  at  times  apply  to  the  Missionaries  for  lessons  in  English  or 
German,  which  are  given   on   condition  of  half  the  time  being 
Idevoted  to  reading  the  Bible  in  the  language  that  they  are  learning. 
At  the  same  time  we  ore  told  th.it  of  the  100,000  students  at  Tokio 
the  great  majority  have  abandoned  the  national  faiths  and  as  yet 
believe  in  nothing.     The  present  is  e\'idcntly  a  transition  period. 
I  The  minds  of  these  intelligent  Japanese  are  very  tmsclilcd.     They 
'  have  been  brought  into  close  contact  with  European  religion  as  well 
as  civilisation,  but  ore  not  yet  as  a  nation  prepared  to  accept  our 
faith,  though  they  have  so  largely  adopted  our  arts,  sciences,  and 
general  culture.    Still  the  light  is  steadily  spreading  and  will  in  (ha 
end  prevail. 


2S8 


The  GeniUnuin*s  Magazine. 


THE    STAGING    OF   PLAYS 
300  YEARS  AGO. 

THE  conditions  under  which  a  play  was  produced  in  the  age  of 
Shakespeare  differed  very  widely  from  those  which  prevail 
to-day,  and  a  right  understanding  of  what  these  conditions  were 
may  often  serve  to  make  plainer  obscure  points  in  the  dramas  of  that 
period.  Among  the  chief  differences  to  be  noticed  are  the  absence 
of  scenery,  the  admission  of  the  spectators  to  seats  on  the  stage,  the 
impersonating  of  the  women's  parts  by  boys,  the  manner  in  which 
the  performers  were  dressed,  and  the  fact  that  in  some  of  the  theatres, 
at  any  rate,  the  performance  took  place  by  daylight. 

First,  the  absence  of  scenery.  This  is  vouched  for  up  to  1581  by 
the  well-known  passage  in  Sidney's  "A  Defence  of  Poesie,"  "You 
shall  liave  Asia  of  the  one  side  and  Afric  of  the  other,  and  so  many 
other  under  kingdoms,  that  the  player,  when  he  comes  in,  must  ever 
begin  by  telling  where  he  is,  else  the  tale  will  not  be  conceived. 
Now  shall  you  have  three  ladies  walk  to  gather  flowers,  and  then  we 
must  believe  the  stage  to  be  a  garden.  By-and-by  we  hear  news  of  a 
shipwreck  in  the  same  place,  then  are  we  to  blame  if  we  accept  it  not 
for  a  rock." 

To  obviate  the  difficulty  alluded  to  by  Sidney  various  devices 
were  resorted  to,  one  common  one  apparently  being  to  bang*  up  a 
notice  indicating  the  scene  the  spectators  were  desired  to  imogitie. 
Of  this  we  have  an  interesting  instance  in  the  "Spanish  Tragedy," 
where  one  of  the  characters  in  the  "play  within  the  play"  says, 
'*  Hang  up  the  title,  our  scene  is  Rhodes."  Another  device  was  the 
use  of  the  prologue,  as,  for  instance,  in  "  Henry  V.,"  where  the  con- 
cluding portions  of  the  prologues  to  acts  iii.  and  iv.  prepare  us  to 
travel  in  imagination  lo  Harflcur  and  Agincourt  respectively.  The 
concluding  line  of  the  prologue  to  acti.ii.  in  the  same  play,  "  Unto 
Southampton  do  we  shift  our  scene,"  might  at  ftrst  sight  appear  to 
furnish  evidence  of  a  directly  opposite  nature ;  but  on  closer  examiiu- 
2ion  this  appearance  will  be  found  to  be  delusive,  as  there  is  no  cvi- 
destcc  to  show  lliat  the  word  scent  ttu  used  ia  its  present  signiiication 


Tir  SS^gaf  rf  P&gvs  jjc  Fdorr  A^*t.       z^ 


fix  'h**  3HB^C  X  'lOSBSBXXtBS.W    ^*tf  »n>£ 

dK  JDc   w*^"»    3c   111  mill  I'll  li"  "^w^ 

b  ic  hhv  3e  wtutii  "touc  Jiiistv  s  son.  td 
;  of  :&e  anoesEB  J&sxnf  ic 
Fsa^  vfaoL  in  a.  pBBxiziiaiicE  ^iv^  "■  li^";  jsnes  L  s.  se  =^1  <x 

a confi^ipaEKj apeeaov (i^atOEd  Ixv  Xuone:  sis:  *^Vict  t&ieieo 
•  .  .  of  pMMtied  dJuJiM  cbcirsaige  <nit  i^cv:^e^  ''hw^  s  zuAnaig 
of  one  tEipi^-^  ScqbmSk.  wbbi  in  ricn  DmesaoE  ^rcvuicA  T^>y 
"S^geaf  ghr»fa*^*fa>»T,^«"Ti*«r  x  xs  i  -*^:egrseiciccir  b?  =:e  ir: 
of  praapedbe  in  ■nir%'*  dfgr*?  Trrrrirw  riat  rte  sscurfmesc  ct 

tbe  *pEni  oid  ssk*  viis.  :=e  •'■■itnim^  ±si  in  ^se. 
Tfand^,  dnt  vfaflie  maat  iBSancsi  csa  be  aajiirfd  oc  ^st  use  ct  0£ 

pj^saodwiiijii  lof  rfiefrnrhaycf £3eietff.FPrT',t?ic^tt3rT.-g3=cc 
possAle  to  lamluce  one  fmninrr  m  wIu-ll  ir  on  be  desrly  sirvn  » 
^nify  a  poinBed  bock  cbxh,  choaaficrra  c=e  cse  of  tiK  weed  jcene 
in  sane  m«mir%  (t^.  Jaasoa's  Mjaqpe  ac  Vscocnc  H^£a^»n  s 
Mazmge)  far  what  ve  sfaooSd  nov  pofc^s  describe  as  a  tabkaa^  tc 
is  easy  to  tee  how  the  noce  nudon  sense  ot  the  word  arose.  Of 
coone;  it  is  not  denied  dnt  pointed  badt  clochs.  or  sooie  sccfa 
thii^  were  osed  in  the  xepresentatkai  o(  masques  :  bat  these  vould 
seem  to  have  been  caDed  ~  devices,'  as  appean  from  an  account  of 
the  bmning  of  Whitehall  Palarp,  in  which  we  leam  that  "the  device 
(rf*  the  masque^  all  of  oiled  paper  and  dzy  fir,"*  cai^t  fire :  but  it  is 
&irfy  certain  that  at  the  period  we  are  considering  these  **  devices  ** 
were  not  called  scenes,  and  were  not  employed  on  the  sta^^es  of 
ordinaiy  theatres.  One  other  passa^^  relating  to  this  question 
deserves  consideration  in  the  present  context,  Marlowe*s  "  Oido," 
act  u.  scene  i.,  which  seems  to  imply  the  use  of  something  of  the 
natoxc  of  scenery ;  the  manner  in  which  i^eas  and  Achates  are 
affected  by  the  sight  of  the  story  of  Troy  depicted  on  the  Temple 
walls  seems  to  require  the  use  of  pictures  or  tapestries  of  some  kind 
to  make  it  intelligible  to  the  audience.  We  know,  however,  thftt 
"painted  doths,"'  a  sort  of  cheap  substitute  for  taiiestry,  were  often 

*  C/t  Una  34  and  35  of  the  same  prologue :  '*  The  icene  li  now  IrfttiiiHulcU 
to  Soathimpton,"  whence  we  see  that  the  word  "ihift  "  muit  nut  Im»  taken  In  Iti 
modem  sense,  toy  more  than  the  word  **  scene.** 

'  These  "  painted  cloths  "  had  pictures  on  them.  C/,  Wllklns,  Miuriti  ^ 
Enfor^d  Marriaget  act  It.  :  "  More  miserable  than  <»e  of  the  wicked  elders  la 
the  painted  doth.'* 

vou  ccxci.    HO.  3049.  X 


290 


The  GenlUmans  Magazine, 


employed  at  this  period  for  decorating  the  walls  of  rooms  in  private 
houses,  and  something  of  this  kind  would  no  doubt  have  been  used 
in  the  present  case,  and  one  or  two  painted  cloths  would  ha\-e  had  a 
place  in  the  list  of  properties  required  for  representing  this  play,  for 
there  is  abundance  of  evidence  to  prove  the  use  of  properties  in  the 
plays  of  the  period  themselves. 

In  the  Induction  to  Jonson's  "  Bartholomew  Fair  "  we  find  the 
"Stage-keeper  "  says,  *'  Would  not  a  fine  pump  upon  the  stage  have 
done  well  for  a  property  now?"  while  in  the  old  play  of  "The 
Taming  of  a  Shrew  "  one  of  the  players  who  is  to  act  before  Slie  says, 

I'll  speak  for  the  properties.     My  Lord,  we  miut 
Have  a  shoulder  of  mutton  for  a  property. 

Now  both  tlicsc  quotations  show  that  "  properties  "  three  centuries 
ago  consisted  of  much  the  same  things  as  they  do  to-day.  The 
mention  of  properties  in  the  stage  directions  of  old  plays  ace  frequent ; 
a  few  instances  must  suffice.  In  Greene's  "  James  IV."  we  are  directed 
to  have  "  a  tomb  conveniently  placed  upon  the  stage  " ;  while  in  the 
same  author's  "  Alphonsus  of  Arragon  "  we  read,  *'  Exit  Venus,  or  if 
you  conveniently  can,  let  a  chair  come  down  from  the  top  of  the 
stage  and  draw  her  up."  This  is  interesting  both  for  the  fine  con* 
sideration  for  the  convenience  of  others  which  it  implies  and  also 
because  it  shows  that  the  use  of  mechanical  appliances  for  introducing 
a  deus  ex  maehin^  were  not  unknown.  In  Henslovve's  Diary  we  find 
an  entry  for  a  disbursement  for  a  somewhat  similar  contrivance — "  a 
pair  of  pulleys  to  hang  Absalom."  On  this  point,  as  on  so  many 
others,  Henslowe  provides  us  with  a  great  deal  of  valuable  information. 
In  his  Diary  for  September  and  October  1598  we  find  that  he 
expended  ^2^  ss.  on  properties  for  **  Piers  of  Winchester,"  a 
4arger  amount  than  was  usual  with  him  for  one  play ;  the  properties 
for  "  Patient  Grissel "  cost  him  the  much  more  moderate  sum  of 
j^'\  S^-  7  while  among  an  inventory  of  properties  belonging  to  the 
Admiral's  men  we  find  such  entries  as  "Tasso's  picture,"  "a  tree  of 
-golden  apple,"  "three  imperial  crowns." 

Now  wlien  we  remember  the  manner  in  which  the  stage  arose  in 
England,  the  absence  of  scenery  will  seem  natural  enough.  Prior 
to  the  building  of  the  first  theatre  in  London  in  Elizabeth's  time, 
performances  had  been  given  in  tlie  halls  of  countr)'  houses  or  in 
the  cotutyards  of  irms ;  and  even  after  the  building  of  the  early  play- 
houses performances  in  inns  do  not  seem  to  liave  ceased  altogether. 
Such  a  state  of  affairs  would  readily  allow  of  the  use  of  properties^ 
especially  such  tilings  as  chairs,  tables,  beds,  Sec,  which  might  easily 


Staging  of  Plays  300  Years  Ago.       291 


be  borrowed,  but  would  have  made  the  use  of  scenery,  as  we  under- 
stand it,  out  of  the  question. 

Again,  from  the  evidence  at  our  disposal  it  is  possible  to  form  a 
r&irly  accurate  idea  of  what  the  stage  was  like,  and  how  it  was  arranged 
at  the  period  we  are  considering.  The  orchestra,  consisting  of 
trumpets,  hautboys,  lutes,  viols,  &c.,  sat  in  a  gallery  at  one  side  of 
the  stage,  which  was  separated  from  the  auditorium,  not  as  now  by 
footlights,  but  by  a  row  of  palings.  Before  the  performance  began 
the  stage  was  hidden  from  the  audience  by  a  curtain  which  waa 
drawn  back  after  the  overture  or  the  third  "sounding,"  as  it  is  called 
in  the  stage  directions.  At  the  back  of  the  stage,  which  was  hung 
with  curtains,  was  a  balcony  or  raised  platform  called  the  upper  stage* 
which  appears  to  have  had  curtains  of  its  own,'  so  that  it  could  be 
used  or  not  as  the  action  required.  When  a  lover  had  to  appear  on 
a  balcony,  a  serving  maid  at  an  upper  window,  or  the  governor  of  a 
kbesi^ed  town  on  the  battlements,  it  was  on  this  platform  they  would 
rseen.  If  this  be  borne  in  mind  it  will  sometimes  make  clear  a 
pungc  in  an  old  play  which  might  otherwise  be  obscure :  for  instance, 
'n  Marlowe's  "Massacre  of  Paris,"  scene  vl,  the  scene  continues 
below  whilst  the  Admiral  is  discovered  in  bed  (on  the  upper  stage) ; 
as  is  shown  by  the  stage  direction,  "  the  body  of  the  Admiral  is 
thrown  down."  Here,  however,  as  in  many  other  cases,  the  use  of 
the  upper  stage  is  not  clearly  indicated  in  the  stage  directions  and 
has  to  be  assumed  by  the  reader. 

It  seems  likely  that  when  a  play  within  a  play  had  to  be  repre- 
sented, the  lower  stage  would  be  used  for  it,  and  the  characters  of  the 
main  play  would  occupy  the  upper  stage.  This  view  at  any  rate  is 
borne  out  by  the  old  play  of  "  The  Taming  of  a  Shrew  !  "  '  If  this 
was  the  case  the  arrangement  of  the  stage  would  be  just  the  reverse 
of  that  depicted  in  the  famous  picture  of  "  Hamlet  at  the  Play"  in 
the  National  Gallery ;  but  whether  the  player  king  and  queen  would 
have  turned  their  backs  to  the  audience  in  the  body  of  the  house  so 
as  to  face  Hamlet,  Ophelia,  and  the  rest  on  the  upper  stage;  or 
have  turned  their  backs  to  the  upper  stage  so  as  to  face  the  audience 
we  have  no  means  of  deciding :  anyway  either  the  actors  in  the  play 
within  a  play,  or  the  spectators  of  it,  must  have  assumed  a  somewhat 
unnatural  po!>ition.  When  a  tragedy  was  to  be  enacted  the  stage 
was  hung  with  black,  as  is  clearly  shown  by  the  following  quotation 

*  (^  Munngcr'f  Smfcrvr  9/ tlu  £asi,  *'  the  cuitaiiu  dfawa  abore." 

•  C/.  Sfanish  Tragtdx,  act.  vt.  where  Jcronimo  speaks  of  ihc  King  and  his 
tnio,  who  arc  lo  witness  the  pUy  within  a  play,  pusiiig  into  ibc  gallery. 

XI 


292 


Tke  Gentlentatis  Magazine. 


from     the    Induction    of    the    Tragedy,   "  A  Warning  for  Fair 

Women  " — 

The  stage  U  hang  with  black,  and  1  perceive 
The  ftuditon  prepared  for  tragedy. 

Or  again  by  the  line  in  "The  Rape  of  Lucrece,"  where  night  is 
described  as  "Black  Stage  for  Tragedies  and  Murders  felL"  In 
passing  we  may  note  that  this  custom  is  a  further  proof  that  scenery 
in  the  modern  sense  could  not  have  been  employed. 

Sometimes  additional  curtains  called  "traverses"  were  hung 
across  the  middle  of  the  stage  when  for  any  reason  it  was  desired  to 
make  it  shallower,  these,  like  the  others,  being  drawn  to  and  fro 
from  the  side,  and  not  let  down  from  the  roof.  For  instance,  in 
Peele's  "  Edward  I."  there  is  a  stage  direction,  "  The  Queen's  tent 
opens,  and  she  is  discovered  in  bed,"  which  would  no  doubt  be 
managed  by  screening  off  part  of  the  stage  with  traverses  and  drawing 
them  back  at  the  required  moment. 

The  absence  of  scenery  sometimes  induced  playwrights  to  take 
liberties  which  would  not  be  possible  on  a  stage  arranged  according 
to  modern  methods.  There  is  a  curious  instance  in  Dekkcr  and 
Webster's  "  Famous  History  of  Sir  Thomas  Wyat"  Lady  Jarw  Grey 
and  her  husband  determine  to  remove  to  the  Tower  of  London  ;  a 
stage  direction  says  they  are  to  "  pass  round  the  stage." '  After  this 
Guilford  speaks  in  words  which  imply  tliat  the  procession  has 
reached  the  gateway  of  the  Tower.  It  would  seem  likely  that  a 
procession  round  the  stage  was  understood  to  imply  a  change  of 
scen^  wliich  would  of  course  be  inconceivable  if  painted  scenery 
were  used. 

If  the  frontispiece  of  Kirfcman's  "  DrolU"  (1672)  represents  the 
appearance  of  a  stage  as  it  was  in  the  earlier  part  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  we  should  conclude  that  the  entrances  and  exits  were 
usually  made  from  the  back,  which,  as  the  tiring-room  was  behind 
the  stage,  is  extremely  likely.  The  stage  directions  enable  us  to  be 
certain  that  more  than  one  entrance  was  used  ;  ^vf- i"  Rowley's  "All's 
Lost  by  Lust"  we  read  (Sig,  H  2)  "Enter  Roderique  again  at 
another  door." 

How  many  entrances  there  were  is  a  harder  matter  to  decide; 
for  in  some  cases  the  stage  directions  (as  in  the  one  just  quoted) 
seem  to  imply  several  doors,  in  other  cases  only  two }  for  instance, 
in  "  The  Hog  has  I-ost  his  Pearl "  we  read  that  one  of  the  characters 
"  passing  over  the  stage  knocks  at  the  other  door,"  and  again  in 
"  Jaclt  Drum's  Entertainment  "  there  is  a  direction  *'  enter  Pasquil 

'  See  DckkCf '•  ^mwd/zV  IVoris  fTcanon's  leoiintl,  icA.  iil.  p.  306^ 


R 


The  Staging  of  Plays  300  Years  Ago,      293 

at  one  door,  his  page  at  the  other."  Perhaps  the  true  explanation 
may  be  that  there  were  usually  three  entrances,  one  through  the 
middle  of  the  curtains  hung  at  the  back  of  the  stage,  and  one  at 
eadi  end  of  the  same  curtains ;  possibly  in  some  playhouses  the 
tiring-room  may  have  been  so  close  behind  the  curtain  that  it  would 
have  been  inconvenient  to  have  the  curtains  opened  for  the  entrance 
and  exit  of  the  performers,^  in  which  case  the  side  entrances  only 
vould  be  employed.  In  the  absence  of  direct  evidence  we  must 
rest  content  with  conjecture.  It  is  quite  clear,  howe\"er,  that 
in  00  case  can  entrances  have  been  nude  from  the  side  of  the 
stagey  as  nowadays,  since  it  was  wholly  open  to  the  view  of  the 
audience. 

The  usual  covering  for  the  floor  of  the  stage  appears  to  bare 
been  rushes  ;  although  on  the  occasion  on  which  the  Globe  Theatre 
was  burnt  down,  in  1613,  the  stage  was  covered  with  noalting,  as  we 
learn  from  a  letter  of  Sir  Henry  Wotion  in  which  the  c%'ent  ia 
described.  "  The  play,"  he  writes,  *'  was  set  forth  with  extraordinary 
circumstances  of  pomp  and  majesty,  even  to  the  matting  of  the 
stage." 

One  of  the  most  interesting  features  of  the  arrangement  of  the 
stage  at  this  period  was  the  admission  of  the  spectators  to  sit  on  the 
stage  itself ;  a  practice  which  brou^jht  money  into  the  exchequer  of 
the  theatre,  but  caused  endless  annoyance  to  the  dramatists  and 
actors.  There  are  numerous  allusions  to  this  custom  in  the  plays 
of  the  day,  but  the  fullest  and  most  interesting  account  of  it  is  to  be 
found  in  Dekkcr's  "Gul's  Hornbook,"  wherein  he  sarcastically  gives 
advice  to  a  yoimg  gallant  how  to  demean  himself  whilst -occupying  a 
seat  upon  the  stage.  From  this  advice  it  is  not  hard  to  deduce  how 
many  young  fops  actually  did  behave  on  the  stage.  They  would 
enter  just  before  tlu  play  commenced  and  call  loudly  for  a  stool,  the 
price  of  which  would  vary  from  sixpence  to  a  shilling  ;  they  would 
light  their  pipe  and  begin  talking  to  any  of  their  acquaintance  wbo 
happened  10  be  on  the  stage,  generally  behaving  in  such  a  manner 
as  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  whole  audience.  During  the  per- 
formance they  would  make  audible  comments  on  the  play  or  the 
acting,  even  addressing  remarks  to  the  performers,  or  if  they  had 
nothing  better  to  do  would  take  up  one  of  the  rushes  from  the  floor 
to  pick  their  teeth  with.    Sometimes  they  would  carry  this  careless 

'  In  the  ftootispiecc  to  Klikman's  Dr^ts,  lOIuded  to  ftlwve,  %  chamctcr  \% 
peeping  through  the  middle  of  the  cun^UDs,  XmX  to  such  i  way  u  not  to  let  th« 
audience  tee  tbroagh  the  Aperture.  Thb  pUte  h  tcpcoduoeil  u  the  frontispiece 
to  Heywood's  Ptaft  m  the  Afcmuud  Sciics. 


■■     to  Hey  wood's 


294 


The  GentlemaiCs  Magazine. 


behaviour  to  such  an  extent  as  seriously  to  interrupt  the  performance 
and  cause  the  "groundlings  "  (/>.  the  occupiers  of  the  pit)  to  hoot 
and  hiss  at  them.  Perhaps  Dekker  may  have  heightened  the 
colouring  somewhat  for  purposes  of  satire,  but  his  picture  is  no 
doubt  substantially  accurate. 

To  pass  from  the  stage  to  the  performers  on  it,  the  moat  striking 
difference  to  be  noted  is  surely  the  pb}-ing  of  women's  parts  by  boys ; 
a  tradition  unbroken  in  Hngland,  as  far  as  wc  know,  until  1629,  when 
a  company  of  French  actresses  ventured  to  appear  in  London,  but 
met  with  a  reception  the  reverse  of  favourable  ;  for  an  age  by  no  means 
prudish  in  more  respects  held  it  indelicate  for  women  to  appear  oi> 
the  stage.  Prj-nne,  in  his  "  Histrioraastix,"  speaks  of  these  actresses 
as  "  Frenchwomen  or  rather  monsters,"  and  proceeds  to  characterise 
their  attempt  to  act  on  a  public  stage  as  "  impudent,  shameful,  un- 
womanish,  graceless,  if  not  more  than  whorish.'*  But  then  the  same 
doughty  old  Puritan  regarded  the  impersonation  of  women's  parts 
by  men  in  femate  attire  as  "sinfiil,  yea  abominable  unto  Christians." 
More  reliable  testimony  to  the  feeling  against  the  appearance 
of  women  as  actresses  is  afforded  by  the  fact  that  the  French- 
women referred  to  above  were  hooted  off  the  stage  by  the 
audience. 

Not  impossibly  accident  as  much  as  design  originally  caused  the 
employment  of  boys  to  play  women's  parts  in  England.  The  direct 
precursors  of  the  theatrical  companies  of  Elizabeth's  day  were 
undoubtedly  the  little  bands  of  strolling  players  who  wandered  up 
and  down  the  country  giving  performances  in  the  halls  of  noble- 
men's houses  or  the  inn  yards  of  market  tonus ;  such,  for  instance, 
as  the  players  in  "  Hamlet."  Nor  are  we  surprised  to  find  that  these 
strolling  companies  consisted  wholly  of  males,  as  the  life  they  led 
must  have  been  a  rather  rough  one  :  for  them  the  acting  of  women's 
parts  by  boys  or  young  men  was  a  necessity ;  the  thing  having 
become  a  custom,  it  was  quite  naturally  continued  when  companies 
settled  in  London.  There  it  was  turned  to  account  in  another  way, 
for  we  leani  that  bo>*s  were  apprenticed  to  well-known  players,  and 
they  would  learn  the  art  of  acting  by  performing  as  women  until  they 
were  old  enough  to  take  the  men's  parts.  Two  important  conse- 
quences of  this  custom  were  the  comparative  paucity  of  female 
characters  in  the  plays  of  the  period,  and  the  fondness  evinced  by 
Shakespeare  and  his  contemporaries  for  making  their  heroines  don 
the  doublet  and  hose,  as  Imogen,  Rosalind,  Viola,  and  many 
others  do. 

It  may  be  worth  nolu^  one  or  two  othef  facts  with  regard  to  thc^ 


The  Staging  of  Plays  300  Years  Ago.       295 

companies  of  strolling  players  mentioned  above,  as  the  traditions 
established  among  them  seem  to  have  aOccted  the  stage  in  various 
ways  until  the  closing  of  the  theatres  at  the  time  of  the  Great 
Rebellion.  In  the  first  place,  each  little  company  consisting  of  but 
few  players  (in  **  Hamlet  "  we  have  "  four  or  five  players,"  in  the  old 
comedy  of  "The  Taming  of  a  Shrew  "  we  have  t^'O  players  and  a 
boy),  the  practice  of  dotibling  or  trebling  parts  must  have  arisen ; 
and  of  the  continuance  of  this  practice  we  have  abundant  evidence. 
To  "  The  Fair  Maid  of  the  Exchange "  we  find  a  table  pre6xed 
showing  "  how  eleven  may  easily  act  this  comedy,"  though  it  contains 
Ltwenty  characters,  "officers"  counting  as  one.  Still  later,  in  the 
rqoarto  editions  of  the  Duchess  of  Malfi  we  find  "The  Doctor," 
"  Cariola,"  and  "  Officers  "  all  assigned  to  one  actor,  R,  Pallant.  In 
the  second  place  the  members  of  these  travelling  companies  must 
liave  grown  accustomed  to  acting  with  very  slight  assistance  from 
mechanical  appliance,  since  they  either  carried  their  dresses  and 
properties  in  packs  on  their  backs,  or  in  a  waggon  behind  which 
they  tramped  on  foot,  as  Dekker  taunts  Ben  Jonson  with  having 
done.  Cf.  *'Saliromastix":  "Thou  hast  forgot  how  thou  amblest  {in 
a  leather  pilch)  by  a  play-wagon  in  the  high  way,  and  took'st  mad 
Jcronimo's  part." 

The  waggon  of  course  could  be  used  as  a  stage,  and  if  like  the 
P**  pageants "  (/>.  play-waggons)  used  in  the  old  miracle  plays  it  had 
Iwo  storeys,  the  lower  to  serve  as  a  green  room,  the  upper  as  stage,, 
it  is  easy  to  see  how  it  came  about  that  the  use  of  trap-doors  was 
common  in  the  Elizabethan  theatres,  which  we  know  to  have  been 
the  case  from  stage  directions  in  various  plays  implying  their  use, 
t.g.  "  a  golden  head  rises  "  in  Dekkcr's  "  If  it  be  not  Good." 

The  exact  manner  in  which  the  actors  dressed  for  their  paita 
cannot  perhaps  be  determined,  but  it  is  certain  that  considerable 
sums  of  money  were  expended  on  costumes.  Gosson  (in  1577)  in 
his  "School  of  Abu.se"  inveighs  against  the  "costly  apparell"  worn 
on  the  stage;  while  Pr)'nne,  in  his  "Htstriomastix,"  some  half  a 
century  later,  makes  a  similar  complaint.  Tn  one  case  we  learn  from 
Henslowe's  Diary  iTiat  as  much  as  ^m^  was  paid  for  a  single  cloak, 
which,  if  the  entry  be  correct,  is  a  ver)*  high  figure,  considering  the 
value  of  money  300  years  ago.  No  doubt  the  same  costumes  would 
be  used  over  and  over  again  in  different  plays,  and  would  become 
old  and  stale,  but  when  new  ihey  certainly  appear  to  have  been 
costly.  In  the  inventory  of  the  apparel  belonging  to  the  Admiral's 
men  in  1598  there  are  some  interesting  items,  a  few  of  which  may 
be  quoted :    "  Item,  a  cloak   trimmed  with  copper  lace  and  red 


296 


The  Geniie?nafCs  Magctsine. 


velvet  breeches,"  for  Tamburlane ;  "  item,  five  satia  doublets  laid 
with  gold  lace,"  for  Heniy  V. ;  *'  item,  a  cloak  with  gold  buttons." 
From  these  items  it  would  seem  that  magnificence  rather  than 
historical  propriety  was  aimed  at  True  that  in  the  city  pageant 
entitled  "  Britannia's  Honour "  we  read  of  one  of  the  characters 
being  arrayed  in  "a  rich  Roman  antique  habit,"  but  then  we  do  not 
know  what  ideas  the  men  of  James  I.'s  day  had  about  "  a  rich  Koman 
antique  habit."  We  know  for  certain  that  in  the  eighteenth  century 
historical  accuracy  was  not  thought  of  in  stage  dresses,  and  may 
fairly  assume  the  same  to  have  been  the  case  a  hundred  years  earlier. 

No  doubt  an  endeavour  would  be  made  to  make  the  dresses 
distinctive,  kings  and  nobles  being  more  richly  clothed  than  others, 
while  it  seems  likely  that  certain  more  or  less  conventional  pro* 
pcrties  served  to  indicate  the  nature  of  the  character  represented ; 
e.g.  in  the  "  Spanish  Tragedy "  we  find  "  a  Turkish  cap,  a  black 
moustachio,  and  a  falchion "  set  down  as  part  of  the  costume 
required  by  the  person  who  was  to  represent  a  Turkish  prince  in  the 
play  within  the  play.  Generally  speaking,  we  may  conclude  that 
wlialever  the  i>eriod  represented  in  a  play  may  hare  been,  the  actors 
were  dressed  in  the  costume  of  their  own  day. 

On  the  other  hand  periwigs,  which  were  not  commonly  used  at 
the  period,  were  worn  by  actors,  and  in  some  cases  vizards  or  masks, 
as  the  following  passage  from  "A  Midsummer-Night's  Dream' 
testifies  : — 

F'uu :  Let  not  me  plajr  ■  woman  1  I  have  a  Lcard  coming. 
Botiem :  That's  all  one ;  jou  ihall  play  it  in  a  maslc. 

The  prologue  was  usually  spoken  by  one  wcariiig  a  large  black 
velvet  ciaik,  though  the  origin  of  the  custom  seems  unknown. 

The  stage  crowds  of  the  period  were  very  different  from  those  of 
(he  present  day ;  in  some  old  plays  we  find  such  stage  directions  as 
the  following  :  "  Enter  soldiers,  as  many  as  you  can,"  with  which 
we  may  compare  Shakespeare's  apology  in  "  Henry  V."  for  atlcmpling 
to  represent  the  battle  of  .^incourt  "  with  four  or  five  most  vile  and 
ragged  foils."  This  was  due  partly  to  the  exigencies  of  the  case,  for 
the  short  runs  made  elaborate  rehearsals  impossible,  and  small 
stages  could  not  be  overcrowded  (especially  as  spectators  sat  on 
Uiem) ;  partly  also  to  the  general  method  of  the  day,  which  strove 
on  the  stage  rather  to  suggest  to  the  imagination  than  to  represent 
to  the  eye. 

In  many  trays  the  performance  must  have  been  more  spontaneous 
than  at  present,  for  the  down  was  permitted  to  extemporise,  as  we 


The  Staging  of  Plays  300  Years  Ago. 


learn  from  Hamlet's  injunction  to  the  players:  "Let  your  clowns 
speak  no  more  than  is  set  down  for  them."  This  licence  was  sotne- 
'  times  carried  so  far  that  the  clowns  would  actually  crack  jokes  with 
aembers  of  the  audience.  Nor  was  this  liberty  of  extemporising 
confined  to  the  clowns.  Sometimes  wc  find  in  an  old  text  an 
invitmg,  "&c,"  or  a  stage  direction  such  as  the  following  from 
Heywood's  "  Edward  IV." :  "Jockie  is  led  to  whipping  over  the  stage, 
speaking  some  words,  but  of  no  importance." 

The  prompter,  or  "  book-holder/'  as  he  was  then  called,  is 
referred  to  as  if  he  were  a  regular  official  of  the  theatre,  together 
I  the  **  tire-man,"  who  presumably  had  charge  of  the  theatrical 
ardrobc. 
The  stage  appears  to  have  been  lighted  by  a  pair  of  larger 
^chandeliers  hanging  from  the  roof,  though,  as  in  some  of  the 
beatres  only  the  stage  itself  was  roofed  in,  daylight  may  to  some 
extent  have  been  relied  upon,  since  the  performances  were  alwa>'8 
given  in  the  afternoon. 

One  more  characteristic  of  the  theatre  of  three  hundred  years  ago 
remains  to  be  noticed,  the  jig.  From  a  passage  in  "The  Hog  has 
I-ost  his  Pearl  "  it  appears  that  a  jig  was  in  rhyme,  for  two  lines  from 
a  jig  supposed  to  be  written  by  one  of  the  characters  in  that  play 
k«re  quoted  in  it.  It  was  sung  ^  by  the  clown  at  the  end  of  the 
performance  and  was  accompanied,  perliaps,  with  music  and  dancing 
— certainly  with  antics  of  various  kinds.  The  general  tenor  of  jigs 
may  be  gatlicred  from  the  fact  that  Shakespeare  couples  together 
"a  jig  "  and  "a  tale  of  bawdry,"  while  Dckker  speaks  of  "a  r»sty 
bawdy  jig."  Probably  the  jig  was  to  all  intents  and  purposes  the 
topical  song  of  the  day.  That  the  audiences  of  the  period  enjoyed 
jigs  immediately  after  a  soul-stirring  tragedy  is  but  one  more  instance 
of  the  difference  between  their  point  of  view  and  ours,  of  which 
numerous  otiier  examples  have  been  given  already.  If  their  taste 
was  simpler  and  cruder,  the  conditions  under  which  plays  were 
produced  must  at  any  rate  have  served  to  make  the  actors  ready 
and  resourceful,  the  spectators  imaginative  and  alert. 

ERIC  REDE  BirCKLCV. 


■Cf.  7^4  Hog^  has  iMt  kit  PuwJi   "A  jig  whose  tune  with  Ibe  Bstaral 
LvhlUle  of  a  c&imiui  shall  be  more  niTiihing  to  your  eus  than  a  whole  coocert  of 
irbcrs." 


298 


The  Gentkmatis  Magazine. 


ODDS  AND  ENDS  IN  POMPEIL 


I  PURPOSE,  in  this  short  sketch,  to  pick  out  the  little  nuggets 
of  common  everyday  life  from  the  glittering  mine  of  learning 
confined  between  the  covers  of  Professor  Mau's  splendid  book, 
"  Pompeii :  its  Life  and  Art." 

I  spread  these  little  nuggets  before  the  reader  for  half  an  hour's 
pastime,  and  feel  convinced  that  he  will  then  b^,  borrow,  or  buy 
the  book  itself,  and  study  its  501  pages,  every  one  of  which  is 
interesting. 

Never,  I  think,  has  the  situation  and  landscape  of  Pompeii  been 
placed  so  clearly  and  concisely  before  a  reader  as  by  Professor  Maa 
in  the  book  before  us.  The  beautiful  walled  city  on  its  gentle 
elevation,  taking  the  shape  of  the  ridge  of  ancient  lava  on  which  it 
was  built  at  the  foot  of  Vesuvius,  and  overlooking  the  plain  of  the 
river  Samo,  which  river,  then  much  wider  and  deeper  than  it  is  now, 
flowed  not  far  from  the  city  gate,  so  that  a  small  port  was  formed 
on  its  banks,  and  became  the  depot  of  all  the  small  towns  of  the 
district,  and  even  of  some  on  the  more  distant  parts  of  Campania 
FeUx, 

Professor  Mau  notices  the  curious  fact  that  Acerra,  at  the  oilier 
side  of  Vesuvius,  to  which  the  port  of  Naples  lay  much  nearer,  yet 
used  by  preference  that  of  Pompeii,  Perhaps  the  reason  may  have 
been  a  stretch  of  brackish  marshes  lying  between  Accrra  and  Naples 
at  that  period,  which  may  have  rendered  traffic  diflSrult. 

I*rofcssor  Mau's  book  is  the  result  of  twenty-five  years'  study 
carried  on  with  real  devotion  and  enthusiasm,  and  all  who  have  already 
seen  Pompeii,  or  intend  going  thither,  should  study  it  diligently. 

Pompeii  was  surrounded  by  the  country  houses  of  weaUhy 
Romans,  and  a  curious  incident  leads  one  to  infer  that  the  Imperial 
family  possessed  a  villa  there,  for  we  read  that  Drusus,  the  young  son 
of  the  Emperor  Qaudius,  was  choked  to  death  at  Pompeii  by  a  fig 
which  he  bad  thrown  up  in  the  air  and  caught  in  his  mouth,  a  feat 
which  one  often  can  see  performed  by  a  Neapolitan  street-boy  now* 
adays. 


Odds  and  Ends  in  Pamfeiu 


299 


The  everyday  public  life  of  Pompeii  was  concentrated  in  the 
Fonun,  the  business  centre  of  the  city.  Here  idlers  and  gossips 
loitered  and  chatted,  here  tradesmen  met  and  settled  points  of 
difference,  and  young  people  pursued  their  romantic  adventures. 

Imagine  the  public  square  of  a  modern  Italian  city  provided 
with  inviting  colonnades  affording  protection  from  rain  or  sun,  and 
the  life  of  the  place  concentrated  therein,  and  you  can  form  an  idea 

Lof  the  ceaseless  bustle  and  variety  of  scenes  that  took  place  daily  in 

I  the  Pompeian  Forum.  In  front  of  the  equestrian  statues,  dealers  of 
every  kind  and  description  took  up  their  posts ;  warm  food  was 
ladled  out  from  caldrons ;  women  sold  fruit  and  vegetables,  men 
the  bread  fresh  from  the  bakers  ;  and  tinkers  mended  old  pots  and 
At  another  side  sat  the  public  scribes— like  those  still  to  be 

'^seen  under  the  arcade  of  the  opera-house  at  Naples— writing  letters 
for  peasant  women  ;  a  group  of  citizens  tested  the  wine  in  the  bottles 
they  held  in  their  hands.  Persons  of  leisure  strolled  about ;  bc^ars 
held  out  imploring  hands ;  children  played  at  hide-and-seek  amongst 
the  columns.  A  naughty  boy,  mounted  on  the  back  of  a  school- 
fellow, received  a  flogging  for  some  misdeed,  the  master  standing  by 
to  see  that  the  slave  employed  applied  the  lash  properly.  On 
certain  days  processions  passed  in  great  solemnity,  and,  at  the 
lime  before  the  amphitheatre  was  built,  games  and  gladiatorial 
combats  also  took  place  in  the  Forum.  Then  the  upper  storey  of 
the  colonnade  was  reserved  for  the  giver  of  the  games,  his  friends, 
and  the  paying  public,  while  the  lower  portion  was  free  to  the 

Fpopulacc,  But  no  vehicle  might  enter  the  Forum,  and  by  this 
regulation  her  preeminence  over  the  provincial  cities  in  this  matter 
was  presened  to  Rome. 

All  around  this  busy  market-place  of  Pompeii  were  public  offices, 
law  courts,  and  special  markets.  In  the  Macellum,  at  the  northwest 
comer  of  the  Forum,  there  was  a  colonnade,  under  the  roof  of  which 
fish  that  had  been  sold  were  scaled,  and  the  scales  thrown  into  a 

[basin.  A  street  to  the  north  of  the  MaceUum  had  rows  of  shops» 
where  were  exposed  for  sale  figs,  chestnuts,  plums,  grapes,  fruit 
preserved  in  gbss  vessels,  lentils,  corn  and  cakes  of  all  kinds.    The 

[Counters  for  fish  and  meat  were  sloped,  so  that  the  fish  might  be 
sprinkled,  and  thecouniers  washed,  while  the  water  ran  off.  Sheep, 
lambs,  and  kids  were  sold  alive  in  the  market,  purchasers  preferring 
a  victim  that  might  be  offered  a  sacrifice  to  the  household  gods 
before  being  used  as  food.  The  wall-paintings  in  the  Mmelium 
plainly  show  the  purpose  of  the  building.  There  are  pictures  of  all 
kinds  of  trade  and  industry.    In  the  room  reser\'cd  for  the  sale  of 


300 


The  GeitiUman  s  Magazine, 


meat  and  fish  there  is  the  personification  of  the  river  Samo,  the 
coast,  and  surrounding  country,  suggesting  that  in  this  room  might 
be  obtained  the  products  of  the  sea,  the  river,  and  the  land. 

Pompeii  indeed  enjoyed  a  large  source  of  income  from  its  fertile 
soiL  PUny,  Professor  Mau  reminds  us,  makes  frequent  mention  of 
the  Pompcian  wine,  but  adds  ttiat  indulgence  in  it  caused  a  headache 
which  tasted  till  noon  the  following  day.  Tlut  tlie  Pompeians  were 
extensive  market-gardeners  is  proved  by  the  fact  that  even  many 
private  e&iatcs  had  vegetable  gardens  attached  to  the  house 

The  business  streets  in  Pompeii  can  even  now  be  distinguished 
at  a  glance  from  those  in  the  less  frequented  quarters,  the  latter 
being  bordered  by  the  blank  walls  of  houses,  broken  only  by  the 
bouse  doors,  while  the  former  are  lined  with  shops  open  to  the  street 
in  all  their  width,  at  night  being  closed  by  wooden  shutters.  The 
door-keepers  in  private  houses  were  frequently  cobblers,  as  is  very 
often  tlie  case  now  in  Naples.  This  is  proved  by  the  tools  found 
and  some  inscriptions  on  the  walls. 

At  the  time  of  the  destruction  of  Pompeii,  soap,  a  Gallic  invention, 
was  only  just  bcgtmiing  to  come  into  use.  As  most  of  the  garments 
worn  were  of  wool,  they  were  sent  out  of  the  house  to  be  cleansed, 
and  the  trade  of  fuller  n-os  relatively  important  Then,  too,  as  now, 
woollen  clothes  were  bleached  with  sulphur  fumes. 

Wine  shops  were  numerous,  and  were  often  at  the  same  time 
eating-houses,  with  some  accommodation  for  the  night.  They  had 
names  such  as  "The  Elephant  Inn,"  and  the  guesu  scratched 
remarks  on  the  walls ;  one  runs,  apparently  written  by  an  affectionate 
husband :  "  Here  slept  Vibius  Kestitutus  ail  by  himself,  his  heart 
filled  with  longings  for  his  Urbana."  The  charges  were  low,  for 
owing  to  the  universal  custom  of  private  hospitality,  these  places  of 
entertainment  were  only  resorted  to  by  the  lowest  classes,  and  tended 
to  become  the  haunt  of  the  vicious. 

It  seems  probable  that  driving  was  forbidden  in  the  streets  of 
Pompeii,  people  using  litters ;  in  the  widest  streets,  where  are  the 
stepping  stones  for  wet  weather,  the  waggons  could  pass,  the  wheels 
rolling  in  the  spaces  between,  and  the  horses  being  loosely  attached 
to  the  wings  by  means  of  a  yoke,  which  gave  the  animals  freedom  of 
movement. 

An  sorts  of  games  had  the  keenest  interest  for  Pompeians; 
I'heir  amphitheatre  is  the  oldest  known  to  us  from  either  literary  or 
monumental  sources.  Numberless  notices  painted  or  scratched  on 
the  walls  relate  to  such  sport.  Terms  of  endearment  were  lavished 
Dpon  gladiators  in  such  inscriptions.    In  one,  CeUdus  is  colled  "the 


Odds  and  Ends  tn  PompeiL 


30" 


maidens*  sigh,"  and  '*  the  glory  of  girls,"  while  one  Crescens  is  styled 
"  lord  o'  lasses,"  and  "  the  darlings*  doctor."  Ever^'one  knows  that 
with  the  Romans  the  public  baths  were  on  indispensable  part  of 
daily  life,  and  the  baths  of  Pompeii  stood  in  no  way  behind  those 
of  greater  dties  in  motley  and  tumultuous  variety  of  scene. 

Professor  Mau  gives  us  a  quotation  from  "Seneca  "  in  illustration 
of  what  went  on  in  such  places  : — 

•'  I  am  living  near  a  bath,"  writes  the  philosopher ;  "sounds  are 
heard  on  all  sides.  Just  imagine  for  yourself  every  conceivable 
kind  of  noise  that  can  offend  the  ear.  The  men  of  more  sturdy 
muscle  go  through  their  exercises  and  swing  their  hands,  heavily 
weighed  with  lead.  I  hear  their  groans  when  they  strain  themselves, 
or  the  whistling  of  laboured  breath  when  they  breathe  out  after 
having  held  in.  If  one  U  rather  lazy,  he  has  himself  rubbed 
with  ointment,  and  I  hear  the  blows  of  the  hands  slapping  his 
shoulders,  the  sound  varj-ing  as  the  massagist  strikes  with  flat  or 
hollow  palm.  If  a  ball-player  begins  to  play  and  count  his  throws, 
it's  all  up  for  the  time  being.  Meanwhile  there  is  a  sudden  brawl  as 
a  thief  is  caught,  or  there  is  someone  in  the  bath  who  loves  to  hear 
the  sound  of  his  own  voice,  and  the  bathers  plunge  into  the 
swimming-bath  with  loud  splashing.  Thc?e  noises,  however,  are  not 
without  some  resemblance  of  excuse,  but  the  hair-plucker  from  time 
to  time  raises  his  shrill  voice  in  order  to  attract  attention,  and  is 
very  still  himself  when  he  is  forcing  cries  of  pain  from  someone  else 
from  whose  armpils  he  plucks  the  hairs.  And  over  all  the  din 
you  hear  the  cries  of  those  who  are  selling  cakes,  sausages,  and 
sweetmeats." 

It  is  a  curious  fact  that  the  aqueduct,  furnishing  water  not  only 
to  Pompeii  but  also  to  the  Naples  of  that  time,  brought  it  from  the 
mountains  near  Avellino,  following  substantially  the  same  route 
which,  since  the  year  1S85,  has  led  to  Naples  the  excellently  pure 
water  now  enjoyed  by  that  city  and  suburbs. 

Turning  now  to  private  dwellings  we  are  informed  that  the 
Pompeian  house  can  be  traced  for  about  four  hundred  years.  The 
earlier  form  consisted  of  a  single  series  of  apartments ;  a  central  room, 
the  atrium,  with  smaller  chambers  opening  into  it,  and  a  garden  at 
the  back.  The  arrangements  contemplated  much  spending  of  time 
in  the  open  air,  and  protection  against  heat,  not  cold,  was  most 
regarded.  The  Pomprians  seemed  excessively  sensitive  to  heat,  but 
bore  cold  with  great  patience.  In  the  houses  of  later  date  and 
greater  development  there  were  usually  two  dining  rooms,  one  for 
summer,  the  other  for  winter  or  bad  weather.    In  many  bouses  the 


302 


Tiie  Gentleman  s  Afagazhu, 


front  door  opened  directly  on  the  street  causeway  ;  and  where  there 
were  vestibules  they  were  generally  more  modest  than  those  in  Rome. 
Doors  were  fastened  with  bohs,  and  crossbars  across  the  wings. 
In  the  earliest  times  the  hearth  stood  in  the  atrium,  a  hole  in  the 
roof  serving  as  chimney.  There  the  household  gathered  at  meal- 
times; there  they  worked  and  rested  from  their  labours.  In  such  an 
atrium,  Professor  Mau  reminds  us,  Lucretia  sat  with  her  maids 
spinning  late  at  night,  when  her  husband  entered  unexpectedly  with 
his  friends;  and  in  such  a  room  in  his  Sabine  \'illa,  Horace  loved  to 
dine  and  converse  with  his  rustic  neighbours. 

A  table  in  the  atrium,  with  vessels  of  brass,  remained  much 
longer  in  use  at  Pompeii  than  in  Rome,  and  symbolised  the  more 
ancient  hearth  with  its  cooking  utensils.  Probably  this  table  was 
Uial  on  which  the  dishes  were  washed  up,  for  frequently  a  statuette, 
throwing  a  jet  of  water  into  a  marble  basin,  stood  in  front  of  it. 
Wide  counters  or  sideboards,  which  could  be  folded  back^  stood 
between  the  pibsters.  The  children,  even  of  the  Imperial  family, 
sat  on  low  stools  at  a  table  of  their  own,  placed  on  the  open  side  of 
the  large  table,  for  the  couches  of  the  diners  at  this  stood  only  on 
three  of  its  sides. 

In  the  kitchen,  fuel  was  kept  in  a  hollow  place  under  the 
masonry  hearth,  just  as  it  is  now  in  most  South  Italian  houses.  A 
baking-oven  near  the  hearth,  too  small  for  bread,  was  evidently 
intended  for  pastry.  A  small  hole  above  the  hearth  carried  off  the 
smoke  of  the  fire,  which  was  made  on  the  top. 

Store-rooms  were  a  common  convenience  in  the  Pompcian 
houses,  as  is  seen  by  the  traces  of  shelves  fastened  to  the  walls;  and 
a  few  of  the  houses  were  provided  with  cellars.  Wall-paintings  show 
that  the  young  girls  of  families  were  well  educated,  for  one  fresco 
represents  girls  writing,  wliile  another  shows  a  young  woman 
painting,  two  maidens  watching  her  with  great  interest,  and  a 
Cupid  holding  the  unfinished  picture  at  which  she  is  working. 

Most  of  the  good  houses  had  double  doors  at  the  entrance,  one 
of  which  was  probably  set  open  during  the  day,  as  in  houses  of  the 
present  period.  In  many  dwellings,  the  rooms  not  required  for 
household  purposes  were  utilised  as  shops  or  small  separate  resi* 
dcnces,  and  no  doubt  afforded  an  important  source  of  income  to  the 
owner,  just  as  now,  in  the  old-fa.shioncd  great  houses  of  Naples,  the 
ground-fioor  is  let  out  in  shops  or  separate  smalt  apartments  in  the 
interior  of  the  courtyard. 

Generally  the  rich  inliabitants  of  Pompeii  possessed  farmhouses 
in  the  neighbourhood,  a  suite  of  rooms  over  tlie  domestic  apartments 
of  the  tenants  being  reserved  for  the  use  of  the  owner. 


Odds  and  Ends  in  Pompeiu 


303 


Not  o!ic  bed  ha*  been  found  in  the  s!ecping-rooms  of  Pompeii, 
for,  as  they  were  usually  made  of  wood,  they  have  crumbled  away ; 
and  in  only  one  of  all  the  dining-rooms  were  sufficient  remains  of 
;  the  couches  found  to  reconstruct  them  in  the  models  now  in  the 
[ifaplcs  Museum.  A  curious  proof  that  many  children  in  Pompeii 
I  vnere  brought  up  by  hand,  is  the  fact  that  feeding-bottles  (often  mis- 
taken for  lamps)  made  of  tena-cotta,  were  found,  on  which  the 
figure  of  a  thriving  child  is  seen,  or  that  of  a  mother  suckling  an 
infant. 

Professor  Mau  gives  his  readers  a  splendid  idea  of  the  beauty  of 
ft  Pompeian  house  on  entering  it :  "As  one  stepped  across  the 
mosaic  border  at  the  end  of  the  faucts  (or  corridor)  a  beautiful  visla 
opened  out  before  the  eyes.  From  the  aperture  of  the  implunum 
a  diffused  light  was  spread  through  the  atrium,  brilliant  with  its  rich 
colouring.  At  the  rear,  the  lofty  entrance  of  the  tablinum  attracted 
the  visitor  by  its  stately  dignity.  Now  the  portieres  are  drawn  aside, 
and  beyond  the  large  window  of  the  tablinum  the  columns  of  the 
first  peristjle  are  seen.  The  shrubs  and  flowers  of  the  garden  arc 
bright  with  sunshine,  and  fragrant  odours  axe  wafted  through  the 
house  \  in  the  midst,  a  slender  fountain-jet  rises  in  the  air  and  falls 
with  a  pleasant  murmur  to  the  ear.  If  the  vegetation  was  not  too 
luxuriant  one  might  look  into  the  exedra.  on  the  farther  side  of  the 
colonnade,  and  even  catch  glimpses  of  the  trees  and  bushes  in  the 
garden  of  the  second  peristyle." 

It  would  occupy  too  large  a  space  here  to  give  an  idea  of  the 
interesting  matter  in  Professor  Mau's  book  rebting  to  the  tombs  of 
Pompeii,  but  we  may  mention  tliat,  besides  the  famous  "Street  of 
Tombs,"  there  were  at  least  two  cemeteries  for  the  poor  at  different 
sides  of  the  city.  Notwithstanding  the  religious  feeling  of  the 
ancieuts  with  r^aid  to  their  dead,  notices  of  a  semi-public  character 
were  often  painted  in  bright  red  upon  the  walls  of  tombs,  and  one 
ridiculous  incongruity  is  met  with  in  an  advertisement  about  a  stolen 
horse  painted  on  a  tomb  in  the  outskirts  of  Pompeii.  It  runs  as 
follows:  "If  anybody  lost  a  mare  with  a  small  pack-saddle  on 
November  35,  let  him  come  and  sec  Quintus  Decius  Ililarus  (a  freed 
man)  on  the  estate  of  the  Mamii,  this  side  of  the  bridge  over  the 
Sarno." 

A  most  notable  feature  of  Pompeii  is  the  innumerable  inscrip- 
tions,  ranging  from  commemorative  tablets  put  up  at  public  expense^ 
to  the  scribblings  on  the  plastered  walls. 

There  are  more  than  six  thousand,  and  they  give  an  insight  into 
the  life  of  the  city  and  its  people  unequalled  in  the  world.    The 


304 


The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 


most  important  are  the  election  notices,  of  which  there  are  about 
sLxteen  hundred.  In  these  the  names  of  more  than  a  hundred 
candidates  appear.  The  recommendations  arc  often  very  simple ; 
merely  the  name  of  the  candidate,  with  the  brief  addition,  "  a  good 
man,"  or,  "  worthy  of  public  office."  One  candidate  is  affirmed  to 
be  "a  youth  of  singular  modesty";  and  another  is  recommended 
on  the  plea  that  "  he  will  be  the  watch-dog  of  the  treasur>'." 

Sometimes  a  recommendation  is  used  against  an  office-seeker 
with  telling  effect :  "  The  meek  thieves  request  the  election  of  Vatia  as 
Kdile." 

Another  notice  runs :  "His  little  sweetheart  is  working  for  the 
election  of  Claudius  as  duumvir;"  which  goes  to  prove  that  the 
Pompeian  wonnsn  were  then  as  active  perhaps  as  the  ladies  of  the 
Primrose  League  now. 

Inscriptions  relating  to  gladiatorial  combats  were  of  course 
plenteous,  and  also  advertisements  of  lost  articles,  such  as :  "A 
copper-pot  has  been  taken  from  this  shop.  "Whoever  brings  it  back 
will  receive  65  sesterces." 

At  least  one-half  of  the  entire  inscriptions  are  the  graffits  or 
scratchings,  a  habit  accounted  for  by  the  temptation  to  use  the 
sharp-pointed  stylus  on  the  polished  stucco  of  the  walls  or  pillars. 

Such  scratchings  are  of  all  kinds  :  names,  catchwords  from 
poems,  amatory  couplets,  rough  sketches,  such  as  the  profile  of  a 
face,  or  a  ship.  Skits  are  frequent.  An  ardent  Pompeian  writes : 
"  Down  with  the  Nocerians  ! "  and  an  adversary,  '•  Good  luck  to  the 
Nocerians ! " 

Many  scratchings  are  greetings  to  friends,  and  one  is  just  the 
reverse  :  "  Sanius  to  Cornelius  :  Go,  hang  yourself ! "  A  very  naive 
greeting  is  to  a  friend  who  has  died  :  "  Pyrrhus  to  his  chum  Chias  : 
I'm  sorry  to  hear  tliat  you  are  dead,  and  so,  good-bye." 

The  theme  of  love  is  most  prominent  in  prose  and  verse,  the 
latter  commonly  the  elegiac  disHeh.  One  scribbler  gives  his  Opinion 
of  love  as  follows:  "He  who  has  never  been  in  love  is  no 
gentleman." 

A  lover  writes :  "  Health  to  you,  Victoria,  and  wherever  you  are 
may  you  sneeze  sweetly  !  "  Another  sap  :  "  Cestilia,  Queen  of  the 
Pompeians,  sweet  soul,  greeting  to  you  I "  A  rejected  suitor,  in  four 
lines  of  irregular  verse,  purposes  to  vent  his  anger  on  tlic  goddess  of 
]Love  herself :  "  All  lovers  come  I  I  purpose  to  break  the  ribs  of 
Venus,  and  to  smash  the  small  of  her  back  mih  clubs  ;  if  she  con 
bore  a  hole  in  my  tender  heart,  why  can  I  not  break  her  bead  with  a 
cudgd?" 


Odds  and  Ends  in  Pomptii, 


305 


Of  a  man-flirt  is  written  :  "  Restitutus  has  many  times  deceived 
nuny  girls."  A  swetit  instance  of  marital  and  family  affection  is 
seen  in  the  graffiti  of  a  lonely  wife  addressed  to  an  absent  husband 
and  other  relations  :  "  Hirti  Psacas  at  all  times  and  In  all  places 
sends  heartiest  greetings  to  Gaius  Hortilius  Conops,  her  husband 
and  guide  and  gentle  adviser,  and  to  her  sister  Diodata,  her  brother 
FominatusandherCeler;  and  she  sends  a  greeting  to  her  Primigenia 
too." 

One  Pompeian  counts  the  steps  as  he  walked  up  and  down  the 
colonnade  at  the  side  of  his  garden  for  exercise.  He  records  640 
paces  for  ten  times  back  and  forth.  An  advent  of  young  pigs  or 
puppies  is  noticed:  "On  October  17,  Puteolana  had  a  Utter  con- 
sisting of  3  males  and  2  females." 

Children  scratched  on  the  walls  the  alphabet  they  were  learning, 
and  quotations  from  Virgil  and  also  an  echo  of  lessons  at  school. 
Sometimes  a  maxim  is  found  recorded,  as  "The  smallest  evil,  if 
neglectedf  will  reach  the  greatest  proportions." 

Many  inscriptions  on  amphorae  are  found  at  Pompeii,  generally 
with  a  pen  in  black  ink,  but  sometimes  painted  in  red  or  white. 
Wiiies  were  often  designated  by  characteristic  names.  One  brand  is 
called  "frenzy  wine,"  another  "white  drink,"  a  third  "breakfast- 
drink  "  \  probably  this  amphorae  contained  a  kind  of  mead  made  by 
mixing  honey  with  wine,  which  was  drunk  at  the  first  meat  of  the 
day.  The  words  for  olives,  beans,  meal,  honey  and  lentils  are  found 
on  the  amphorae  in  which  they  were  kept. 

A  large  number  of  vessels  contained  the  fish-sauces  of  which  the 
ancients  were  so  fond,  and  were  labelled  with  their  names,  "^erum 
blossom,"  a  kind  of  fish  jelly,  or  "tunny-jelly,  blossom  brand." 
'*  Muria,"a  favourite  kind,  was  apparently  a  sort  of  pickle. 

I  cannot  close  this  sketch  in  a  better  manner  than  by  quoting  part 
of  chapter  fifty-eight,  the  "conclusion"  of  Professor  Mau's  beautiftii 
book,  which  points  out  the  significance  of  the  Pompeian  culture  :  — 

"  The  situation  of  Pompeii  was  unfavourable  to  the  growth  of  an 
indigenous  culture.  Founded  by  Samrutes,  a  primitive  folk,  it  lay 
in  the  overlapping  edges  of  two  great  zones  of  influence,  <jreek 
and  Roman.  It  was  a  small  town,  which  never  rose  to  the  dignity 
even  of  a  provincial  capital.  It  was  a  seaport,  which,  through 
marine  traffic,  kept  in  touch  with  other  cities,  esp>ecially  those  of  the 
east,  from  which  fashions  of  art,  religion,  and  life  travelled  easily 
westwards.  .  .  .  The  literature  which  tliey  (the  Pompeians)  read,  as 
we  team  from  quotations  scratched  upon  the  walls,  consisted  of  the 
Greek  and  Roman  writers  of  their  own  or  previous  peri6ds  ;  not  a 
VOL  ccxci.    NO.  3049.  Y 


306 


The  Gentlentan*s  Magazine, 


single  line  of  an  Oscan  drama  or  poem  has  been  found  Their  art 
was  a  ruproduclion  uf  designs  and  masterpieces  produced  elsewhere 
— at  first  under  Hellenistic,  later  under  Roman  influence— on  a 
scale  commensurate  with  the  limited  resources  of  the  place. 
Finally  the  countless  appliances  of  everyday  life,  from  the  fixed 
furniture  of  the  atrium  to  articles  of  toilet,  were  not  rare  and  costly 
objects  such  as  were  seen  in  the  wealthy  houses  of  Rome  or 
Alexandria,  but  those  of  the  commoner  sort  everywhere  in  use. 
Any  one  of  fifty  cities  might  bave  been  overwhelmed  in  the  place  of 
Pompeii,  and  the  results,  as  far  as  our  knowledge  of  the  ancient 
culture  in  its  larger  aspects  is  concerned,  would  not  have  been 
essentially  diiTerent. 

"The  representative  rather  than  exceptional  character  of  the 
remains  at  Pompeii  make  them  of  less  or  greater  value,  according  as 
we  look  at  them  from  different  points  of  view.  If  we  are  seeking 
for  the  most  perfect  examples  of  ancient  art,  for  masterpieces  of  the 
famous  artists,  we  do  not  find  them.  Many  of  the  Pompeian 
paintings  appeal  to  modern  taste ;  yet  it  would  be  as  unfair  to 
judge  of  the  merits  of  ancient  painting  from  the  specimens  which 
are  worked  into  the  decorative  designs  of  Pompeian  walls,  as  it 
would  be  to  base  an  estimate  of  the  value  of  modern  art  upon 
chromos  and  wallpapers.  ...  No  large  city,  fortunately  for  its 
inhabitants,  was  visited  by  such  a  disaster  as  that  whicli  befell  the 
Campanian  town  ;  and  the  wealth  of  artistic  types  at  Pompeii  bears 
witness  to  the  universality  of  art  in  the  Greco-Roman  world. 

"Since  these  remains  arc  so  broadly  typical,  they  are  invaluable 
for  the  interpretation  of  the  civilisation  of  which  they  formed  a  part. 
They  shed  light  on  countless  passages  of  Greek  and  Roman  writers. 
Literature,  however,  ordinarily  records  only  that  which  is  exceptional 
or  striking,  while  here  we  find  the  surroundings  of  life  as  a  whole, 
tbe  humblest  details  being  presented  to  the  eye. 

"  Pompeii,  as  no  other  source  outside  the  pages  of  classical 
authors,  helps  us  to  understand  the  ancient  man." 

LILY  WOI.FPSOHK. 


3p: 


AT    LYME    REGIS. 


PERSUASIOarS  benine  faannts  ihny 
nunc  <dd  wrid  pteiium,  Ljme,  for  bm; 
I  trod  dij  quunl  tfntJlA  cnl  to-^iy. 
Yet  KDOwn  of  jore  ibey  seen  to  bc^ 

I  "*'*'"'  the  Hig^  Street^  steep  uxliiK^ 

Yon  ancient  Inn's  astir  tCHtey, 
Sa  WahcT  Etiot^  bones  fine 

And  cmiide  obstruct  the  my. 

The  Inn^  awake  with  laoquejs  grand, 
Tbe  landlord  waits  with  wckoming  smile ; 

Sir  Wahcr  scorns  th'  obsequious  band, 
And  will  not  deign  to  staj  awhfle. 

Fair  &ces  watch,  from  latticed  pane, 

The  curricle  remount  the  hill, 
But  Aiuie  lodis  seaward,  and  doth  chain 

To  her  sweet  self  my  wandering  will. 

Now  in  the  street  her  pensive  shade 
With  Captain  Wentworth  flitteth  by ; 

Though  fair  Louisa,  wilful  maid, 
Contrives  to  charm  his  sailor's  eye. 

A  youth  in  mourning  follows  slow, 
With  downcast  look  and  absent  mind ; 

I  smile  at  Benwick's  crushing  woe, 
Swift  consolation  he  shall  find. 

Of  ancient  make  their  gay  attire, 
The  men's  high  stocks,  the  ladies'  curli  ; 

But  youth  with  wonted  life  and  fire 
His  flag  o'er  lip  and  cheek  unfurls. 


They  heed  me  not,  for  what  am  I  ? 

A  shadow  vaguu  of  years  to  come  ; 
To  the  new  Cobb  they  laughing  fly. 

While  I  must  follow,  wistful,  dumb. 

They  jesting  climb  the  Cobb's  steep  side, 

Louisa,  ripe  for  girlish  freak, 
I  dread  the  ill  that  must  betide, 

AVould  warn  them  bade,  but  cannot  speak. 

Again  I  haunt  the  quaint  old  street  ; 

A  figure  slight,  with  hazel  eyes. 
Steps  lightly, — no  man  turns  to  greet 

Our  witty  Jane,  or  "  Welcome  "  cries, 

Romantic  maids,  or  wits  of  Lyme 
Who  find  belles-lettrti  a  constant  lure. 

Would  never  deign  lo  turn  a  rhyme. 
To  this  fair  guest,  with  eyes  demure. 

Yet  hath  she  made  Lyme  Regis  town 
For  many  a  modem  pilgrim  famed. 

Through  fair  "  Persuasion's*^  just  renown, 
Her  English  classic,  aptly  named. 

On  Cobb,  in  street,  Jane's  U>'ing  face 
Seems  still  to  smile,  nor  men  forget 

Her  sweet  Anne  Eliot's  pensive  smile, 
Whose  fancied  haunts  allure  us  yet 

MAUDE    PROWER. 


309 


TABLE     TALK, 


Modern  Corruption  op  Language. 

I  DARE  not  attempt  fully  to  ilhiatrate  my  quarrel  with  modem 
corruptions  of  language.  There  are  a  few  men  1  know  who 
would  bring  everything  to  the  standard  of  convenience,  and  would 
seriously  commend  the  ase  of  a  language  such  as  Volapiilc.  For 
them  I  do  not  write.  The  climax  of  ignorance  Is  surely  reached 
when  we  find  a  society  describing  itself  on  its  formation  as 
Ornithological,  and  announcing  its  purpose  as  being  to  improve  the 
breed  of  dogs  t^that  of  bad  taste  is  approached  when  men  write  that 
"  it  goes  without  saying,"  as  is  daily  done.  A  mistake  which  dates 
from  early  days  is  to  be  found  in  some  old  writers  of  established  repu- 
tation, and  is  constantly  employed  by  men  who  should  know  better, 
in  using  the  phrase  "  from  whence."  "  Whence,"  of  course,  involves 
the  "  from."  If  a  man  does  not  see  the  absurdity  of  such  a  phrase,  I 
can  only  counsel  him  to  extend  his  heresy,  and  try  the  effect  of  "  to 
thither  " — one  utterance  being  as  defensible  as  the  other.  These  are, 
[  adroit,  ca.ses  of  grave  mistake.  To  deal  with  lighter  matters: 
Why  should  men  now  talk  of  "  bye-paths  "  ?  What  signification  do 
they  attach  to  these  ?  "  Bye  "  has  in  England  no  justifiable  existence 
except  in  the  salutation,  "Goodbye."  A  "bye"  at  cricket  even  is 
not  defensible.  It  is  a  meritorious  act  on  the  part  of  our  London 
County  Council  to  shame  our  Parliament  and  our  railway  companies 
by  substituting  by-law  for  bye-law.  On  some  of  these  points  I  liave 
previously  dwelt  But  nothing  can  be  done  with  the  public  until  a 
thing  ts  hammered  into  its  head.  In  this  case  we  need  the 
"  damnable  iteration  "  with  which  FaEstafT  rebuked  Prince  Hal.  In 
the  volume  of  Daniel,  from  which  I  have  recently  quoted,  bypath 
is,  of  course,  correctly  spelt.  By-paths,  by-gone,  and  by-words  are 
all  rightly  spelt  in  Shakespeare. 

Current  Errors. 


T  will  perhaps  be  regarded  as  pedantic  to  ask  people  to  substitute 


•  tiro  "  for  "  tyro,"  yet  they  ought  so  to  do.     *'  Tiro  "  is  in  the 


Latin  a  recruit,  or  young  soldier.     Still  more  hopeless  is  It  to  ask 


3IO 


The  GeniUmans  Magazine. 


them  to  write  "rime  "  instead  of  "  rhyme/'  the  latter  mistake  being, 
as  it  seems,  deftnttely  established  in  the  language.  Yet  all  philo- 
logists know  "  rhyme  "  to  be  founded  on  a  mistaken  association  with 
**  rhythm."  I  turn  to  "  rime,"  in  the  first  popular  dictiooiry  which 
is  accessible,  the  *'  Student's  English  Dictionary,"  by  Ogilvie  and 
Annandale,  and  find  under  "  rime "  the  explanation,  "  The  more 
correct  spelling  of  rhyme."  Daniel,  whom  I  have  before  quoted, 
writes  "ryme."  The  first  use  of  the  word  by  Shakespeare  is  in 
"  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona."  Here,  in  the  supposedly  authoritative 
edition  of  Wright  and  Clark,  "  The  Cambridge  Shakespeare,"  I  find 

Some  lore  of  yoais  hath  writ  lo  you  in  rhyme, 

accompanied  by  no  comments.  In  the  First  Folio  the  word  is  spelt 
"rime,"  a  fact  the  editors  complacently  ignore.  In  every  other 
case  in  which  I  have  consulted  the  fir^t  folio  it  reads  "  rime,"  and 
the  modern  editor  substitutes  "  rhyme."  Milton,  in  the  first  edition 
of  "  Paradise  Lost,"  has 

Things  unattenipicd  yet  in  Prose  or  Rhime, 

which  I  may  incidentally  mention  is  a  translation  or  paraphrase  of 

Arioslo's 

Cosa  noa  delta  in  prosa  mai  ai  In  rima. 

Where  the  best  scholars  fail  in  reforming  a  heresy  I,  of  course, 
despair  of  success,  and  the  matter  is  not,  after  all,  of  supreme  impor- 
tance. "  Rhodomontade  "  is  a  simitar  mistake  which  is  of  frequent 
occurrence.  The  real  form  is,  of  course,  "  Rodomontade,"  being 
descriptive  of  the  vapourings  of  Rodomonte,  a  brave  but  boastful 
leader  of  the  Saracens  in  the  "  Orlando  Furioso."  Who,  in  this 
case,  first  brought  in  the  superftuous  "  h  "  I  know  not  It  can 
scarcely  be  due  to  some  confused  association  with  Rhodes  or 
Rhododendron.  I  may  mention  again,  as  a  curious  instance  of  the 
misquotation  now  almost  universal,  that  HazHtt,  in  Bohn's  edition  of 
his  works,  is  made  lo  speak  of  '*  Primroses  that  come  before  the 
swallow  dares,"  instead  of  "  daffodils "  in  one  of  the  best-known 
passages  in  Shakespeare. 


St.\lk  Quotations. 

ONE  of  the  results  of  the  general  dissemination  of  half-know- 
ledge is  thai  the  scholar  should  be  provided  with,  or  should 
himself  provide,  an  almost  entire  stock  of  new  quotations.    Manj  of 


Tabk  Talk. 


3»i 


our  most  fiuniliar  quotations,  in  spite  of  their  beftuty  and  appropriate- 
ness, are  woro  threadbare,  and  there  is  an  inexhaustible  supply  in 
the  mines  that  ha?e  already  been  quarried.  One  might  surely  be 
supposed  to  have  heard  by  now  the  last  of  the  statement  that  the 
English  "take  their  pleasures  sadly,"  fathered  on  Froissart,  but  not 
to  be  found  in  that  writer.  People  should  for  very  shame  cease  to 
misapply  cut  botv,  the  meaning  of  which  is  quite  different  from  that 
ordinarily  assigned  it,  and  "of  that  Uk,"  which  is  wrong  nine  times 
out  often  when  used.  I  would  fein,  however,  stop  quotations  of  great 
beauty  when  they  have  become  vulgarised.     Surely 

A  thing  of  bcftuty  Is  a  joy  for  ever 

has  been  employed  often  enough.  "  Cons^picuous  by  his  absence,** 
which  few  know  to  be  practically  translated  from  Tacitus,  is  scarcely 
to  be  regarded  as  a  quotation.  It  is  used  ad  nauseam^  but  may  be 
accepted  as  a  current  locution  convenient  in  its  way.  Still  fewer 
know  that  we  are  indebted  to  Tacitus  for  "  They  make  a  solitude  and 
call  it  peace,"  and  the  reproach  of  "  forsaking  the  setting  sun  and 
turning  to  the  rising."  These  quotations  cannot  be  said  to  have  been 
%-ulgariscd.  Sheridan  supplies  a  batch  of  quotations  that  ore  almost, 
but  not  quite,  too  familiar.  The  same  may  be  said  of  Tennymn, 
though,  perhaps,  as  regards  conversation  rather  than  writing.  Few 
can  say  "Come  into  the  garden"  without  adding  "^[aud."  A  man 
would  scarcely  dare,  in  these  later  days,  to  draw  again  the  picture  of 
an  institution 

With  prudes  for  proctors,  dowtgeis  for  deam, 
And  sweet  giil-gi&duAtes  in  tbeir  goldea  hair. 

Or  repeat,  except  in  joke,  concerning  a  too  long-winded  orator — 

For  men  may  come  and  men  vuy  go. 
But  I  gu  on  fat  cvcj. 


and 


A  well  ■graced  actor. 

Beauty  when  uDadomed  adorned  tlie  most. 

Age  cannot  witbei  her,  nor  cusumi  iiale 
Her  infiuTe  variety- 


must  be  taken  as  representative  of  scores  of  things  that  can  never  be 
forgotten,  but  have  served  their  purpose.  I  know  one  writer  into 
whose  compositions  the  lines  concerning  the  teacup  times  of  hood 
and  hoop,  or  while  the  patch  was  worn,  intrude  as  regularly  as  King 
Charles  the  First  mtruded  into  Mr.  Dick's  Memorial — ^which  last  is 
itself  an  illustration  that  has  done  good  service,  and  might  be  put 
on  the  retired  list. 


312 


The  Gentleman  s  Mc^azifu. 


Nbw  Quotations. 

IF  I  do  not  attempt  to  give  many  new  quotations,  it  is  becauie 
such  are  inexhaustible.  I  could  supply  thousands  as  good  as 
any  in  use  and  not  perceptibly  impoverish  the  stock.  The 
•'  Festus"  of  my  old  friend  Philip  James  Bailey,  of  whose  death  two 
score  years  ago — though  he  is  still  happily  alive— I  recently  read 
■with  amazement,  would  alone  furnish  scores  of  sentences  pithy  or 
poetical,  and  quite  worthy  to  take  rank  as  gnomes.  Shakespeare 
has  not  yet  been  half  used.  All  can  people  Windsor  with  sights  and 
sounds  of "  sweet  Anne  Page  "  j  yet  who  ever  thinks  of  Launce's  name- 
less sister,  who  is  "  as  white  as  a  lily  and  as  small  as  a  wand,"  surely 
the  very  picture  of  sweet  English  maidenhood  ?  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher  are  never  quoted,  yel  I  could  draw  theocc  passages  of 
tenderness  and  beauty  unrivalled  except  in  Shakespeare.  Think,  for 
instance,  of  the  girl  who,  dressed  as  a  page,  has  followed  her  lover  to 
the  wars,  and  finds  his  sword  directed  against  her  throat.  A  second 
Viola,  she  is  willing  to  accept  death  at  the  hands  of  her  lover,  and 
says,  encouraging  him  to  kill  her — 

Strike,  'tis  not  b.  Ufc, 

'Us  but  a  piece  of  childhood  thrown  away. 

I  think,   but  am  not  sure,  that  it  is  Suckling  who  makes  a  lover 
declare,  concerning  his  mistress— 

H«  face  L»  like  tlie  milky  vay  i'  the  kky, 
A  meeting  of  gealle  lighu  wtthoal  a  name— 


surely  an    exquisite  comparison, 
inexhaustible. 


But   the  subject,  as  1  said,  is 


SVt.VANUS    URBAN, 


THE 


GENTLEMAN'S  MAGAZINE. 

October  1901. 


SOME  EXPERIMENTS  IVITH  JANE, 


By  M.  A.  CuRTois. 

I  CAME  across  Jane  some  years  ago.  It  was  at  the  lime  when 
experiments  were  being  tried  with  her. 
A  young  friend  of  mine,  who  knows  the  ins  and  outs  of  London, 
had  discovered  Jane  in  a  London  lodging-house,  left  there  as  a 
legacy  from  many  former  landladies,  though  how  she  had  originally 
ot  there  no  one  knew.  The  present  landlady,  who  had  only  recently 
smc  into  possession,  was  anxious  to  get  rid  of  this  child  of  the 
premises,  being  ambitious,  and  having  set  up  a  more  showy  servant, 
of  a  smart  though  distinctly  dubious  appearance.  My  friend,  who 
might  be  an  eminent  philanthropist  if  she  would  take  her  philan- 
thropy less  by  fits  and  starts,  became  interested  in  this  forlorn 
Jane  of  uncertain  age,  with  a  white  compressed  face,  dark  eyes,  and 
a  mop  of  hair — hair  which  left  the  beholder  with  the  perplexed 
impression  not  only  that  it  nc\xr  had  been  but  that  it  never  could 
be  brushed.  The  landlady,  who  had  her  own  ideas,  was  only  loo 
anxious  to  make  the  best  of  Jane.  She  gave  us  to  understand  that 
though  outwardly  unpresentable  the  girl  had  a  treasure  of  mora! 
worth  within.  "Aii  would  never  have  anything  to  say  to  the  lads, 
ma^am,"  she  asserted.  "You  needn't  be  afraid,  there's  no  lightness 
about  Jane  ! "  Our  after-impressions  did  not  quite  bear  out  this 
evidence,  but  on  the  whole  I  still  agree  to  it.  It  was  not  lightness 
ihat  was  Jane's  chief  characteristic,  what  impressed  me  most  was  an 
appalling  sincerity. 

This  became  evident  to  me  in  the  explosion  that  marked  the 
end  of  the  first  experiment,  an  experiment  that  had  begun  delusively 

VOU  CCXCI.      HO.  20S<X  Z 


J 


314 


TJi€  Gentleman  s  Magazine, 


with  the  smoothest  prospect  of  success.  My  friend  had  an  acquain- 
tance who  was  a  seamstress  in  a  London  street,  composed  of  small 
bouses  exactly  like  each  other,  all  apparently  murmuring,  "  Poor,  but 
Respectable."  The  seamstress  in  question  certainly  was  respectable 
{by  the  way,  she  did  not  give  the  same  character  to  the  street),  a 
widow  of  about  fifty,  with  a  grown-up  son,  and  a  house  kept  as  neat 
as  the  traditional  new  pin.  The  understanding  n-as  that  she  was  to 
train  Jane  in  the  ways  of  virtue  ;  while  Jane,  boarded  by  my  friend's 
money,  was  to  assist  her  in  the  housework.  As  for  the  son,  he  was 
a  young  builder,  away  all  day,  and  it  was  to  be  hoped  that  he  would 
not  fall  in  love  mth  Jane.  The  bargain  was  struck — Jane  did  not 
seem  otherwise  than  acquiescent — she  was  removed  to  the  widow's, 
and  at  first  all  went  well 

That  hardly  expresses  it.  The  widow  was  enthusiastic.  We 
heard  nothing  at  first  but  the  most  lavish  praises  of  Jane,  so  lavish 
indeed  that  if  Mrs.  Smith  had  not  been  transparently  sincere  we 
might  have  a  little  suspected  her  exactness.  The  girl  had  seemed  to 
us  silent,  frightened,  dull,  a  compressed  creature  from  whom  nothing 
could  be  extracted— perhaps,  as  the  landlady  had  told  us,  "  she  was 
daft  wi'  gentlefolk,"  a  race  with  whom  possibly  she  had  no  previous 
acquaintance.  When  we  saw  her  during  her  first  days  at  Mrs. 
Smith's  she  was  still  silent  as  she  had  been  before  ;  but  her  silence 
struck  us  as  of  a  different  character— it  seemed  now  like  a  mute 
reception  of  impressions.  Mrs.  Smith  assured  us  that  she  was 
"  hintcreated  in  hevcrythink  "  ;  and  that  her  son,  who  was  "  a  good- 
living  young  man,  thought  well  on  her  ^ — a  statement  which  she 
hastened  to  qualify  by  the  news  that  he  was  keeping  company  with 
the  daughter  of  a  grocer.  We  departed  after  congralulaiing  Jane 
on  her  good  beliaviour,  felicitations  to  which  she  gave  no  response 
whatever.  Mrs.  Smith  accompanied  us  to  the  door  herself,  that  she 
might  again  express  her  gratitude  for  our  having  provided  her  with 
Jane. 

And  then  I 

Only  three  da>-s later,  on  a  Sunday  afternoon,  when  wc  were  takJitg 
afternoon  tea  in  delicious  leisure,  there  arrived  the  young  builder 
in  such  tremendous  agitation  that  it  was  a  long  time  before  we  could 
understand  his  talc  That  same  evening  wc  went  again  to  Mrs. 
Smith  to  condole  with  her  on  a  catastrophe, 

AVhat  had  hapjiened  ?  There  had  been  no  thunder  in  the 
air.  Jane  had  been  good  and  docile  at  '*  Meeting  "  on  Saturday ; 
and,  Sunday  morning  being  wet,  had  spent  il  with  Mrs.  Smith  in 
tidying  every  nook  and  corner  of  tlic  house.  £vcr^  thing  was  peaceful 


Some  Esperimetds  wiik  Jmme,  315 

iftfr  Ifwt  ^*"'*4f*y  ^"w ' ;  die  youpg  bcildersat  witli  Ins  p^ic  m  tlie 
dean  kitdien,  iridic  bis  mother  ttwfc  hermp  widift  book  of  mnaiis 
on  her  kne^  fipom  irindi  die  infmiVri  to  tend  to  her  son  and  Jane. 
Tbey  had  Kaicdy  obsovcd  the  afacncc  of  the  Inter  from  the  nxm 
when  thej  wete  roosed  \fj  a  tenible  commntinn  Clike  citses  and 
w3d  beastly*  was  Mis.  Smidi'seqaeanaaX  and  with  one  accad  they 
nuhedapstaiis  to  the  attic  The  s^fat  which  tibey  cucuuuteied  was 
not  short  of  honor. 

How  shall  I  describe  it?  Thefuiuihuewasall  "unshed  ibont* 
(I  keep  00  &]lii%  bade  00  His.  Smith's  enaesMous);.  It  was  ill 
over  the  fioor;  it  was  polled,  broken,  knocked  aboot;  tfte  bed- 
dothesand  imiueaaes  woe  torn  off  the  bed.  And  there  in  the 
midst  stood  Jane  in  a  white  finy,  **  a  grapplin'  with  her  hands,*  and 
tean  rollii^  down  her  diedcs.  The  ootborst  wfaidi  followed  was 
the  first  infimatp  acquaintance  with  the  inmost  Jane  with  wiiidi  her 
hosts  had  been  faTooicd. 

"  I  won't  stay  'ere,"  cried  Jane  "  I  'ate  yer  'oose.  I  won't  be 
put  upon  wT  yer  nasty  nigglin'  ways.  I  want  to  be  untidy  and 
dirtyl" 

"  An' wi' that,"  said  Mrs.  Smith,  "she  ups  wi*  the  mattress  an' 
beddothes,  an*  she  'eaps  *em  cm  the  bed,  an'  there  she  gits  into  'em, 
just  as  she  was.  An'  if  youll  believe  me,  ma'am,  she  lies  there  now. 
If  youll  j^  up  an'  look  at  'er  yoall  see  'er  there ! " 

My  friend  discreetly  refused  to  encounter  Jane,  evidently  suffer- 
ing from  acute  hysteria.  She  consoled  Mrs.  Smith,  who  had  a  weak 
b«ut  and  was  agitated,  and  left  her,  promising  to  come  back  on  the 
morrow.  The  next  day  came,  but  the  situation  bad  not  improved. 
Jane  had  remained  in  her  disordered  bed,  perfectly  passive,  but  re- 
fusing to  be  disturbed,  and  presenting  nothing  to  view  but  her  mop 
of  hair.  Mrs.  Smith  was  excited  and  wailing  for  a  policeman,  that 
she  might  turn  "  the  monster  "  from  the  house.  In  fact,  as  her  heart 
was  really  subject  to  attacks,  the  position  of  afifairs  was  full  of  danger. 
But  my  friend  is  a  lady  of  infinite  resource,  and  packed  Jane  off  to 
a  new  home  that  very  day. 

"You  see,  dear,"  she  told  me,  during  a  few  minutes'  conference 
which  we  held  together  in  Mrs.  Smith's  front  parlour,  "  it  was  perhaps 
too  neat  a  place  for  the  poor  child,  who  has  been  kept  at  an  unnatural 
pitch  of  virtue.     I  have  an  idea  I  " 

And  though  I  was  sceptical,  the  idea  when  revealed  did  not 
sound  entirdy  hopdess.  My  friend's  establishment  has  generally  a 
few  odd  memb^  who  hold  indefinite  positions  among  the  rest 
Among  these  ^vas  a  girl  who  had  been  brought  up  from  the  country 

za 


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The  Genikman^s  Magazine. 


to  be  trained,  and  was  returning  to  her  home  before  proceeding  to  a 
"place,"  The  said  home  was  a  lonely  cottage  in  the  midst  of  fields, 
tenanted  by  a  laige  family,  at  once  disorderly  and  respectable.  The 
mother  would  be  glad  of  a  "help,"  and  it  seemed  Hkely  that  Ja tie 
would  be  permitted  (with  limits)  to  be  both  dirty  and  untidy. 
Besides,  the  country  allows  many  opportunities — it  is  always  possible 
there  to  retire  into  a  lane  and  make  mud-pies.  So  Jane  was  in- 
formed by  Mrs.  Smith  of  her  new  prospects,  and  preparations  for  her 
departure  were  set  on  foot  at  once. 

Of  course  my  friend  interviewed  her  before  she  went,  and  told 
her  that  she  was  a  wicked  girl,  to  whom  a  last  chance  was  being 
given.  Jane  received  this  news  with  her  usual  silent  manner,  as  if 
she  had  entirely  withdrawn  into  herself.  But  to  Mrs.  Smith,  who 
followed  up  the  exhortation  with  many  remarks  of  a  much  more 
graphic  nature,  she  wore  a  different  countenance — one  of  white-faced 
silent  injury,  as  of  one  who  has  been  /;//  upon  till  she  can  endure 
no  more.  I  have  no  doubt  this  was  really  her  view  of  the  position. 
She  went  off  with  her  bundle,  and  we  saw  no  more  of  her.  But  we 
felt  with  misgivings  that  we  had  not  heard  the  last  of  Jane. 


Nor  had  we,  indeed,  although  some  months  elapsed  before  we 
were  favoured  witli  any  further  news.  AVe  had  separated,  had  each 
been  in  various  places,  and  were  at  length  in  the  autumn  again 
together  and  in  Ix)ndon.  One  evening,  when  our  husbands  were 
away  and  we  were  alone,  we  were  told  that  "  a  poor  woman  "  wished 
to  see  my  friend.  This  visitor  proved  to  be  the  Mrs.  Ronald  who 
had  undertaken  the  second  experiment  with  Jane. 

I  remember  that  in  the  interval  which  elapsed  before  she  appeared 
we  looked  at  each  other  with  foreboding  in  our  faces,  wondering  with- 
out words  what  the  news  would  be.  When  Mrs.  Ronald  entered 
with  care  written  on  her  brow  we  realised  that  the  news  would  not 
be  good.  She  came  in,  so  rural  in  her  country  shawl  and  bonnet 
that  she  seemed  to  bring  with  her  the  autumn  stubble-fields.  Stand- 
ing before  us,  she  at  once  entered  on  complaint.  "  She  did  not 
know  if  she  could  do  with  Jane — Jane  was  so  ///*fA." 

So  high  !  We  remembered  that  Mrs.  Smith  had  said,  "Jane  was 
the  lowest  creature  as  she  ever  see  " ;  and  although  accustomed  to 
experiences  we  found  our  breath  taken  by  this  difference  of  position. 
But  when  Mra.  Ronald  was  seated,  and  bad  been  revived  with  coffee, 
the  details  she  gave  went  far  to  confirm  her  statement.  It  appeared 
that  we  had  only  imperfectly  realised  tlie  amazing  versatility  of  Jane. 
"When  she  first  come,"  said  Mrs.  Ronald,  "  ahe  was  quiet-like, 


S»mt  Escperummis  wiik  J^ 


^^7 


and  seaned  to  be  fwrndfim'.  *    (We  ii  ■!  ■■Imid  ifart  fflndkieu) 
"Bac  nowsiie'ic  began  to  t^  sfae  tsSs  cmyut  what*  itHfen.nn! 

bcTc  be  betwzx'  l.annnn  an*  t*  comilzT.     She  tdfcs  oT  aodHf  faoK . 

in,  Smitb,  an*  of  bcr  «aj%  an'  of  parties,  aa^  Haac-^dta^  wf  thit 

sort  o'  tfainf;.    Bat  1  doo^  saf  die's  not  a  good  girl,  for  dkc  t^s  as 

:thatMfs.Smkfaalia}i«attto  Meedn'an'faadsnTcn.    Sbe 

t  sucn  a  ntss  m  tt  tliat  vcrfe  wyui  to  bbvb  pn^os  v  BBJgblL 

An'  sbe  says  sbe  wooldnt  atty  if  it  wasn't  for  the  duces  in  the 

winter,  an'   that  sbeH  go  to  'cm  in  white  imwhriing  an'  bbe 

Inbboos.- 

Herc  was  amfiisioo  !  My  friend  immediately  evcJTcd  that  innate 
depravity  was  beginning  to  appear  in  Jane.  I  tbot^fat  dificrcntly 
(we  had  long  ago  decided  that  she  was  to  be  praftiralj  and  I  psydio- 
logical).  It  iras  crident,  indeed,  to  me  tbat  this  child  of  London 
followed  her  impulses  ss  sunply  as  a  saiage  or  an  animal ;  but  I  saw 
no  proof  of  any  worse  depravi^tban  ibeonaccotmtable  perrerseness 
of  a  child.  A  wish  rose  in  mc  to  see  ber  at  the  Tillage  dances,  in 
the  company  of  the  young  beker  who  admired  her ;  and  it  so 
h:^ipened  that  this  careless  thought  was  able  to  bring  about  its  own 
futnlmenL  For  I  mentioned  it  to  my  friend,  it  excited  her  curiosity, 
and  sbe  arranged  that  at  Christmas  we  should  go  down  into  the 
country. 

We  were  in  sore  trouble  that  winter,  both  of  us,  and  I  think  that 
made  my  impressions  all  the  sharper  \  though  it  left  my  friend, 
whose  perplexities  were  deeper,  in  a  despondency  that  allowed  little 
observation.  Anyway,  I  have  no  \ision  clearer  cut  ilun  tliat  of  the 
village  schoolroom  on  the  night  of  the  Christmas  dance — seen  again 
by  mc  after  many  years  of  absence,  during  which  I  had  known  little 
of  English  villages.  I  can  sec  it  now  — the  bare  rooms  with  their 
Qnre  of  gas,  the  garlands  of  tissue  roses,  the  big  fires,  the  village 
fiddlers,  the  jovial  assembly— and  Jane  in  the  midst  of  it,  obviously 
on  the  brink  of  a  third  experiment.  Sbe  was  not  in  "white 
mushcling  "  (probably  for  want  of  funds) ;  she  was  in  the  Sunday  dress 
that  .Mrs.  Smith  had  made,  bare,  black,  unomnmcntcd,  and  already 
a  good  deal  worn,  but  she  had  tied  her  hair  with  a  blue  ribbon. 
With  surprise  I  saw  that  she  was  not  unattraclii-e ;  she  was  older, 
and  her  slight  figure  had  gained  a  certain  clfgance,  though  her 
white  compressed  face,  dark  eyes,  and  mop  of  hair  were  as  much  Jane 
as  they  had  ever  been.  The  young  village  baker  fluttered  round  her 
with  attentions  ;  so  did  others  of  the  swains,  but  she  was  distinctly 
high  with  them,  though  her  manner  was  that  of  imiiaticnco  rather 
than  of  principle,  as  if  she  had  no  fancy  for  promiscuoui  courtship* 


3i8 


The  Gentleman's  Magazine* 


She  greeted  my  friend  and  myself  with  a  shy  grace,  which  seemed  (o 
speak  confidence  and  gratitude.  We  were  interested  .  .  .  but  we 
had  no  time  to  pursue  impressions,  for  the  next  day,  on  sudden 
summons,  we  left  the  village.  We  parted ;  the  waves  of  a  great 
trouble  closed  upon  mc,  and  for  a  long  time  I  thought  no  more  ot 
Jane, 

Then  I  heard  the  rest.  Not  long  after  the  Christmas  dance  Jane 
had  become  the  wife  of  the  village  baker ;  and  for  a  time  was  a  most 
submissive  helpmate,  "as  if  she  were  taking  things  in,'*  said  my 
informant  The  hapless  baker  could  have  had  no  previous  know- 
ledge of  the  way  of  Jane  in  each  experiment  of  life — that  is,  of 
receptivity  followed  by  revolt.  Consequently,  when  the  latter  came 
it  found  him  unprepared— a  quiet  man,  mildly  jocular  with  customers, 
unprovided  with  weapons  for  impromptu  warfare.  His  Jane  developed 
wilful  to  a  quite  extraordinary  extent,  neglected  duties,  was  in  and 
out  of  the  house  all  day  ;  and  though  she  was  never,  said  my  infor- 
mant, "  either  extravagant  or  bad"  was  as  impish,  and  contrary,  and 
capricious  as  a  child.  The  quiet  baker  had  his  own  means  of  resent- 
ment ;  if  he  could  not  control  Jane  he  could  treat  her  with  severity. 
There  came  a  night  when  she  fled  out  weeping  into  the  village, 
and  found  compassionate  people  to  pity  her  and  take  her  in.  She 
seemed  quiet  and  sad,  and  they  respected  her  as  a  martyr— while  the 
baker  returned  without  regret  to  single  life. 

Here,  then,  the  story  might  have  ended  for  a  time,  but  an  un- 
expected development  occurred.  Before  the  protectors  of  Jane  had 
found  reason  to  change  their  tune,  an  event  happened  which  upset 
all  calculations.  News  arrived  that  the  baker  was  dangerously  ill, 
and  Jane  at  once  flew  back  to  her  husband's  home,  where  she  nursed 
him  during  his  brief  sickness  with  agonised  devoUon.  He  seems  to 
have  been  sensible  of  this  affection,  but  was  too  ill  to  alter  the  will 
that  he  had  made  in  his  first  anger — a  will  which  left  all  he  owned 
absolutely  to  his  mother.  The  old  lady,  who  only  knew  this  after 
bis  death,  was  not  disposed  to  be  ungenerous  ;  but  Jane,  never  mer- 
cenary, refused  to  touch  a  penny.  As  a  reward  for  this  unselfishness, 
and  for  her  devoted  nursing,  her  mother<in-law  took  her  back  to  her 
own  home  in  the  nearest  town. 

i  should  like  to  have  known  more  of  this  mother  of  Jane's 
husband,  for  she  seems  to  have  been  a  remarkable  old  woman— not 
least  proved  so  by  the  capacity  she  showed  for  understanding  and 
dealing  with  her  daughter- in -law.  She  appears  to  have  realised  that 
during  a  period  of  grief  Jane  would  be  everything  that  was  tractable 
and  submissive,  but  that  with  reviving  energy  &l]c  would  again  becoma 


Some  Experiments  with  Jane. 


319 


impossible ;  that  the  simplest  course,  therefore,  was  to  get  her  manied 
as  soon  as  might  be.  The  young  foundrynien  had  begun  to  flutter 
about  Jane  even  in  these  days  of  eariy  widowhood  ;  but  I  fancy  that 
the  astute  old  mother-in-law  had  no  sort  of  wish  to  have  her  daughter 
established  near  her — near  enough  to  be  sought  whenever  Jane 
required  a  refuge.  Circumstances  were  favourable.  A  travelling 
circus  came  to  the  town  to  spend  the  spring,  and  Jane  was  intio- 
duced  by  a  friend  to  the  manager.  He  admired  her  exceedingly ; 
before  the  spring  was  over  they  were  married,  and  in  the  early 
summer  they  left  the  place.  The  old  lady  assisted  the  whole  business 
generously,  and  parted  from  Jane — probably  with  great  relief. 

So  closed  the  talc.  It  must  be  owned  that  I  shook  my  head. 
I  fancied  that  Jane  had  in  her  only  too  much  of  the  caravan.  I 
told  myself— not  without  some  relief  on  my  own  part— that  I  was 
not  likely  to  hear  of  her  again.  But  in  that  head-shake  there  "v^ 
ignorance  and  prejudice.  The  course  of  time  was  to  make  this 
clear  to  me.  Once  more— thJs  time  in  an  unexpected  interview — I 
had  an  opportunity  of  observing  the  development  of  Jane. 

That  was  two  years  later,  on  an  autumn  evening,  when  I  sat 
alone  in  lodgings  in  a  provincial  town,  musing  on  many  things,  to 
which  the  unfamiliar  room,  my  temporary  resting-place,  gave  a 
setting  of  its  own.  Among  other  pieces  of  information  provided 
by  the  servant,  I  had  been  told  that  there  was  a  circus  in  the  town, 
but  nothing  in  me  responded  10  the  news.  Even  the  subsequent 
announcement  that  a  young  woman  wished  to  see  me  was  not 
enough  to  recall  an  old  acquaintance.  The  young  woman,  how- 
ever, after  entering  modestly,  stood  still  in  the  midst  of  the  room, 
and  announced  herself. 

"  Please,  ma'am,  I'm  Jane." 

1  sprang  forward  immediately.  Here  then  once  more  was  the 
result  of  experiments. 

In  what  had  they  resulted  ?  When  I  was  sufficiently  composed 
to  be  able  to  take  stock  of  my  visitor  I  became  aware  of  alteration, 
though  there  was  not  enough  to  dispel  the  sense  of  a  familiar 
presence,  Jane  was  slight,  while-faced,  dark-eyed  as  of  old  ;  and 
on  the  whole  quietly  dressed,  though  she  bad  now  a  professional 
appearance— and  moreover  the  look  of  a  professional  on  tour,  the 
indefinable  aspect  of  the  unstationary.  The  skirt  of  her  dress  wag 
of  some  simple  dark  stulT  and  untrimmed,  but  her  jacket,  though 
also  dark,  had  some  gold  twist  on  it,  and  her  mop  had  developed 
into  a  formidable  hang  beneath  a  black  straw  bonnet  with  red  roses 
under  its  brim.    I  mention  these  details  because  they  produced  the 


Tk^  Geniiefnan's  Magazine* 

pression— a  desire  for  soberness  softened  by  adoramenl. 

,er  was  charming,  simple,  modeslj  confident,  with  a  more 

lour  than  of  oM.    As  if  I  had  been  her  teacher,  she  was 

assure   me    that  she  had   in   nd   wise   forg^otten    old 

jsban'  is  a  good  man^  ma^anii  he  really  is  \  and  I  goes  to 
en  we  stay  over  Sunday.    And  I  speak  to  the  others,  and 
lot  to  be  pigs  an^  'eathen,  or  they'll  get  caught  up  sharp 
i  day.     I  allays  say  my  prayers^  you  may  bet  I  do  t     An' 
nt  to  leave  my  'usban*  now  the  litlle  baby's  come." 

own  that  the  last  sentence  was  somewhat  staggering  to 
lad  been  rejoicing  in  Jane's  simple  piety.     But  on  reflec- 
isidered  that  its  honesty  lent  weight  to  the  other  sUte- 

had  made.    Whatever  may  be  thought  of  her  phraseolog)', 
>f  the  lodging-house  at  least  was  candid. 
e  add  that  my  inquiries  (for  1  did  make  inquiries)  resulted 
ling  good  impressions.     I  was  told  that  Jane's  husband 
;hy  man,  though  with  a  temper  somewhat  worn  by  profes- 
tion  j  that  he  was  satisfied  with  the  dignity  of  his  wife 
:ie  boys,"  and  altogether  fond  of  Jans  and  proud  of  her. 
1  once  been  between  them  a  time  of  "awkwardness"; 

_^II 


MOUND-MAKING   BIRDS. 


AMONG  the  cnrioos  snd  icmzdoUe  bets  of  bird  Ii£e  nooe 
probably  aic  more  stzikii^  and  Mqggeuite  duo  those  ooo- 
nccted  with  the  inognd-bondffn  of  Anslnlia,  and  of  the  Ifnlnrra^ 
Nicobor,  and  some  other  places.  Mr.  Gould  in  lus  great  woii:  on 
the  "Birdsof  Anstxafia*hasgTTenafii0andinostintere9tii^accoant 
of  die  Ldpoa  oerHnttt,  the  srinirifir  name  of  one  species  of  these 
roound-bml£ng  birds  there.  The  mocmd-bDildit^  ii^  of  course,  a 
sabstitnte  for  nest-biuldii% — so  great  and  radical  a  cfaai^  that  only 
great  and  ladical  cbaz^es  in  conditioo  and  drcumstances  could  in  any 
m^  aixount  for  it  Lapoa  oallata^  at  immeose  labour  and  pains, 
manages  to  scratdi  together  a  vast  mound  composed  of  mould,  dust, 
and  vegetable  matter,  till  it  is  yards  square.  Into  the  Tcry  middle 
of  this,  at  an  exact  and  unifonn  depth,  the  bird  deposits  ber  ^gs^ 
sometimes  four,  sometime  wxxt,  and  lays  them  at  set  distances  from 
each  other,  as  though  they  were  the  outside  ends  of  the  spokes  of  a 
wheeL  Having  deposited  the  eggs,  the  parent  takes  no  further 
trouble  about  them ;  and,  Then  hatched,  the  young  ones,  unaided, 
push  their  way  through  the  mass  till  they  find  themselves  free.  Some 
say  that  the  parents  seek  for  them  then  and  tend  and  feed  them,  but 
others  say  not 

Mr.  Gould  has  given  full  descriptions  of  these  birds  and  their 
habits,  both  in  his  text  (v.  78)  and  in  the  introduction  to  his  "Birds 
of  Australia"  (page  buiii),  where  drawings  of  the  mound-nest  are  also 
presented — one  of  them,  a  nest  in  section,  showing  the  exact  position 
of  the  eggs.  He  tells  us  that  the  shells  of  the  eggs  of  the  Leipoa 
oceUata  are  so  very  fine  and  brittle  that  they  can  scarcely  be  touched 
without  their  breaking— that  certainly  they  cannot  be  handled  freely 
—and  that  very  probably,  if  they  had  continued  to  be  brooded,  the 
species  would  have  so  suffered  that  ultimate  extinction  would  have 
resulted  through  this  breaking  of  eggs.  But  it  is  very  easy  in  such 
cases  to  mistake  an  effect  for  a  cause— it  may  just  as  well  be  that  the 
eggs  have  become  so  very  fine  and  brittle  because  of  the  long- 


$22 


The  Gentiemans  Magazine* 


continued  habit  of  hatching  them  by  heat  of  decaying  v^etable 
rnaitcr  as  anjrthing  else.  Anyway,  they  could  not  well  be  brooded 
now,  for  it  is  essential  that  in  this  process  the  eggs  must  by  the 
sitting  bird  be  frequently  turned  o\*er,  so  tha.t  ihey  may  get  at  all 
parts  as  near  as  may  be  equal  heat  from  her  body,  and  this  these  ^gs 
could  not  stand.  TIic  bird,  again,  takes  care  not  lo  put  the  eggs 
close  together  as  in  a  nest,  for  a  good  reason,  because  if  they  were  so 
they  would  not  receive  full  heat  at  the  surfaces  where  they  touched 
each  other;  therefore  they  are  put  invariably  at  certain  equal  dis- 
tances apart    They  are,  in  fact,  as  said  already,  placed  as  at  the  ends 

of  spokes  of  a  wheel— thus,  if  there  are  four,  ■  I  •  ;  if  there  are  eight, 

^^  ,     If  instinct  alone  tanght  this  at  first  to  a  bird  that  had  hitherto 

been  nest-building,  then  that  is  what  Mr.  Darwin  would  have  called 
a  "strange,"  a  "surprising,"  even  a  "  wonderful  "  instinct.  In  the 
mound  the  heat  is  equalised  all  over  the  needful  area,  or  reaches  a 
very  near  approach  to  this,  through  the  adult  bird  in  building  distri- 
buting equally  in  it  the  v^ctablc  matter ;  so  that,  in  short,  you  have 
this  two-sided  problem  :  either  (i)  of  eggs  too  brittle  for  brooding 
and  exposure  in  an  open  nest,  or  (2)  eggs  having  become  so  because 
for  ages  the  birds  have  exposed  them  to  the  mound  heat  instead  of 
brooding  them — which  is  it  ?  It  is  quite  clear,  on  the  face  of  it, 
Ihat  these  birds  could  not  originally  have  been  mound-builders — 
that  their  mound-building  is  itself  a  proof  of  a  process  of  dtffercntia- 
tion,  which  has  not  even  yet  exhausted  the  marks  that  must  be  made 
upon  them.  If  wc  see  in  the  coot  that,  because  of  more  lengthened 
habit  in  water  than  has  been  the  case  of  the  water-hen,  it  has  got  per- 
'Ceptibly  more  webbed  feet  than  its  congener,  then  we  may  be  certain 
that  the  same  powers  which  have,  because  of  due  reasons  or  causes, 
produced  the  marginal  webbing  of  the  coot's  feet,  growing  broader  of 
course  with  time,  will  come  in  play  if  we  wait  long  enough,  and  the 
same  process  will  make  itself  evident  in  the  watcrben  also. 


II. 

The  point  is  yet  more  decisively  forced  upon  us  if  we  extend  ooir 
suncy,  and  include  a  comparison  of  these  Lcipoa  oceUata  with  other 
mound-building  birds  in  Australia  and  elsewhere  claiscd  as 
Af<g>ipodh\  which,  if  they  do  not  exhibit  some  of  the  nice  disccm- 
ments  and  exquisite  arts  of  the  oceUata  in  certain  respects,  yet  build 


Mimmd'Makimg  Birds, 


323 


mounds  and  shav  mere  noticeably  still  the  mslced  and 
effects  of  persistent  habit  on  stiuctnre ;  far  tbesr  mode  of 
'throwing  dust,  eai^  and  lesres  into  a  heap  by  the  action  of  the  feeC 
from  behind— that  is,  by  the  bead  of  the  bud  turned  from  the  potnt 
at  which  it  aims  at  throwto^  the  i«at«^aU — has  so  deretoped  the 
land  muscles  of  the  Ccet  that  theieDcnbcts  in  all  tbegnx^aie 
atively  large.   The  task  in  some  cases  is  an  immeikse  ocke,  and  moat 
occupy  a  long  time.    Mi.  Saville  Kent  ^xaks  of  AoBtnlian  mound- 
its  as  much  as  fifteen  feet  hi^andsa^  feet  ia  iPii  iiiiifLintfr.aiMi 
•  gives  a  very  striking  diawii^  of  ooe.' 
The  Mtffapodius  twwuthis — or,  in  tbe  ofdioaxy  language  of  the 
colonists,  jangle  fowl— was  first  carefully  obscrred  by  Gilbert,  who 
could  not  for  a  time  bclicre  that  birds  could  be  hatched  in  a  vast  heap 
VtS  earth  and   fermenting  Tegetable  matter  twenty  feet  in  circum* 
'ference  at  the  base,  and  at  least  fire  Ceet  in  height  in  the  centre  ;  this 
the  more  thai,  in  his  idea,  the  heap  veiy  often  could  receive  little  or 
I  beat  from  tbe  sun,  it  "  being  so  eovel<^)ed  in  thick  foliage  and 
;  as  to  preclude  the  possibility  of  the  sun's  rays  reaching  iL" 
The  eggs,  be  was  told,  were  deposited  at  niglit  and  a/  inUroah  of 
Stviral  days. 

Mr.  Gilbert  tells  that  even  after  be  had  tried  to  malce  obser- 
vations at  one  place  he  was  still  sceptical  about  what  be  had 
been  lold  till  he  went  to  Knockers'  Bay,  and  near  it  found  ample 
'opportunities  of  verifying  the  reports.  When  he  went  there,  he  saj-s  i 
"  I  was  still  sceptical  as  to  the  probability  of  these  young  birds 
ascending  from  so  great  a  depth,  as  the  natives  represented,  and  my 
suspicions  seemed  to  be  confirmed  by  my  being  unable  to  induce 
the  native  in  this  instance  to  search  for  the  eggs,  bis  excuse  being 
that  it  would  be  of  no  use  as  he  saw  no  traces  of  the  old  birds  having 
been  recently  there."  But  be  himself  mounted  the  heap  ;  and  after 
some  search  and  scratching  off  of  the  earth,  *'  1  found  a  young  bird 
in  a  hole  about  two  feet  deep,"  and  this  encouraged  him  to  search 
and  observe  further,  with  the  result  that  all  he  had  been  told  by  the 
natives  was  fully  confirmed.  Two  ^gs  were  at  another  tumulus 
taken  from  a  deptli  of  six  feet,  and  this,  in  connection  with  the  fact 
of  finding  a  young  bird  within  two  feet  of  the  top,  suggested  the 
idea  of  the  steps  or  stages  in  the  ascent  upwards  out  of  the  heap  as  ^ 
mentioned  above.  "Tbe  composition  of  the  mound,"  he  saya^' 
"appears  to  influence  the  colouring  of  a  ihin  epidermis  with  which 
the  shells  are  covered  and  which  readily  chips  off,  the  shells  really 
being  a  pure  white;  those  deposited  in  black  soil  arc  always  of  Jt 
*  Halmraiist  in  AuUrQlia^  p.  97. 


324 


The  Gentleman  s  Magazine, 


dark  reddish  brown  ;  those  from  the  sandy  hilloclcs  near  the  beach 
ore  of  a  dirty  ycMowish  white  ;  they  differ  a  good  deal  in  size,  but  in 
form  all  assimilate,  both  ends  btiing  equal.  They  are  three  inches 
and  five  lines  long  by  two  inches  and  three  lines  broad." 

The  form  of  the  eggs  thus  entirely  differs  from  those  ot  Lfipoa 
oce/hta^  which  are  thin  at  one  end,  and  this  end  uniformly  placed 
downwards  in  the  heap. 

Several  of  the  megapods  of  Australia  favour  the  sea-coast  and 
the  ranges  lying  near  to  it  {as  wc  shall  sec  do  Me^apodius  \Vaiia(d 
in  Gilolo,  Ternate,  and  Bouru),  whereas  tlie  Leipoa  oceUata  are 
inbnd  in  West  Australia,  South  Australia,  and  tlie  western  parts  of 
New  South  ^Valcs,  the  teipoa  being  notably  dispersed  over  all  parts 
of  the  Murray  Scrub,  in  South  Australia.  Broinowskt  writes,  evidently 
giving  results  of  later  closer  obser\'ations : 

"  When  the  eggs  are  about  to  be  laid  the  vegetable  matter  is 
thrown  in,  the  eggs  are  placed  in  a  vertical  position  with  the  small 
end  downwards,  and.  again  differing  from  the  megapods,  invariably 
in  a  circle,  with  about  three  inches  between  each.  .  .  .  Eight  eggs 
have  been  found  in  one  nest,  but  the  natives  state  that  sometimes 
more  than  that  number  arc  deposited."  Sir  G.  Grey  was  of 
opinion  that  sometimes  two  circles  of  eggs  were  laid  on  different 
levels,  and  as  to  temperature  of  ihe  heaps  he  wrote  :  "  The  tempera- 
ture of  the  nests  I  have  examined  has  alwa)*s  been  warm ;  not  so 
much  so,  however,  as  I  should  have  thought  necessary  for  batching 
eggs." 

We  are  told  by  one  good  authority  that  the  mound  of  Leipoa 
octUata  resembles  a  big  ant-heap  ;  and  that  there  indeed  ants  are 
generally  very  numerous,  as  in  an  ant  hill— a  guess  being  hazarded 
that  they  are  a  very  attractive  morsel  for  the  young  birds  when  they 
hatch— the  small  creatures,  though  completely  fledged,  making  their 
way  out  of  the  heap— some  feet  in  depth— not  at  one  big  effort,  but 
by  steps  and  stages,  with  rests  between  where  they  need  nourish- 
ment and  find  it  largely  in  the  ants  and  ants'  eggs. 

Sir  George  Grey  thus  wrote  to  Mr.  Gould  about  the  mound  birds 
he  had  observed  in  Australia  : 

"There  is  only  one  male  and  one  female  to  each  mound  ;  thejr 
repair  an  old  mound,  and  do  not  build  a  new  one;  both  assist  in 
Bcratching  the  sand  to  the  nest  The  female  commences  laying 
about  the  beginning  of  September,  or  when  the  spear  grass  begins 
to  shoot.  Both  sexes  approach  the  nest  together  when  the  female 
is  about  to  lay,  and  they  take  an  equal  sliare  in  the  labour  of  cover- 
ing and  uncovering  the  mound.  .  .  .  From  the  commcnccmcf»t  of 


Mound-Making  Birds, 


325 


building  until  the  last  e^s  are  batched  four  moons  elftpse  [this 
would  give  a  very  long  period  of  time  before  the  eggs  were  hatched]. 
The  young  one  scratches  its  way  out  alone,  the  motlier  does  not 
assist  it.  .  .  .  l*he  mother,  who  is  feeding  in  the  scrub  in  the 
vicinity,  hears  it  call  and  runs  to  it  She  then  takes  care  of  the 
young  one  as  a  European  hen  does  of  its  chicks.  When  the  young 
arc  all  hatched  the  mother  is  accompanied  by  eight  or  ten  young  ones, 
who  remain  with  her  till  they  are  more  than  half  grown.  The  male 
bird  does  not  accompany  them."  ^ 

Sir  George  Grey  thus  further  described  the  Leipoa  oceUata  ; 

"  The  eyes  of  the  living  bird  are  of  bright,  light  hazel ;  its  Itgs 
and  feet  dark  brown  ;  while  the  bare  parts  of  the  head  and  face  arc 
<tf  a  very  delicate  and  clear  blue.  The  gizzard  is  very  bugc  and 
muscular,  the  inner  coats  peculiarly  horny  and  hard.  Its  food 
consists  chiefly  of  insects  such  as  Fhaimidit  and  a  species  of  Cim<x\ 
it  also  feeds  on  the  seeds  of  various  shrubs.  ...  It  possesses  tlie 
power  of  running  with  extraordinary  rapidity  ;  it  roosts  at  night  on 
trees,  and  never  flies  if  it  can  axoid  so  doing.' 

The  brush  turkey  (7'a//r^a/(W  Latkami)  is  classed  among  the  true 
megapods— a  large  gregarious,  rasorial  bird  about  the  size  of  a 
turkey,  black  and  brown  above  and  silvery  helow.  One  mark  of  all 
the  mt^apods,  as  said  already,  is  their  relatively  laige  feet,  with  the 
toes  on  a  level  as  in  the  American  curassows,  which  latter  indeed 
the  megapods  represent  in  Australia.  The  birds  inhabit  brush  and 
scrub,  and  some  of  them  favour  the  beaches  near  to  the  sea-cooiL 
Some  are  only  about  the  size  of  common  fowl  and  are  of  sombre 
colour. 

As  we  write,  wc  read  that  large  supplies  of  brush  turkeys  of 
Australia  are  now  in  London  and  other  large  English  towns,  and  are 
to  be  seen  hanging  at  poulterers'  windows.  The  Sunday  TeUgraph 
of  .^pril  30,  1899,  on  this  cried  out ;  "  What  a  fantasy  of  strange, 
novel  commerce  it  is  that  this  antipodean  poultry  of  the  scrub 
should  be  captured  by  Queensland  blacks,  iced  by  Brisbane  Germans, 
and  shipped  over  by  Sydney  and  Melbourne  merchants,  to  make  a 
stew  or  ragoflt  in  Piccadilly  or  Pimlico  !  "  But  the  natural  history 
of  the  Sunday  Telegraph  writer  was  less  exact  than  his  (acts,  for  be 
spoke  as  though  the  brush  turkey  made  its  mound  completely  of 
vegetation,  whereas,  as  wc  shall  sec,  the  important  fact  is  the  pro- 
portion of  vegetation  that  is  year  by  year  let  in  among  the  sand  and 
rubbish  at  the  exact  point  and  depth  for  giving  the  due  amount  of 
heat  for  incubation  \ 


•  Gould's  HamtMk,  ti.  165. 


>  /M£  ii.  160. 


326 


TIte  Gentleman's  MagazUte. 


The  "New  Ccnmry  Dictionary"  has  this:  "Scrub-lurkcy,  a 
Migapod  or  mound  bird  (see  Megapod),  and  quotes  this  from  a  well- 
known  author  as  instance:  "  Look  at  this  immense  mound,  a  scrub- 
turkeys  nest,  thirty  or  forty  lay  their  eggs  in  it." 

We  are  told  that  J/c^/Of//«i  comprises  all  the  Afe^afioiiina  except 
Jxipoa  ocellaia.  This  is  given  as  commonly  named  the  Mallee-hen — 
native  pheasant  of  Australia.  IMpoa  ouUata,  the  same  as  raallcc- 
bird.  Professor  Alfred  Newton  is  given  as  authority  for  this  entry ; 
"  Mallce-hcn  (or  bird)  :  Leipoa  ocellata^  a  bird  of  the  family  Afega- 
podida  (see  Leipoa).  Also  called  native  pheasant  by  English  in 
Australia," 


IIL 


What  is  somewhat  surprising  is  that  while  one  authority  tells  us 
that  the  Leipoa  otdiata  belongs  to  the  Megapodida^  another  says  in 
effect  that,  though  it  really  is  a  megapod,  it  is  excepted  Gear  it  is 
that  some  confusion  must  exist  somewhere,  for  while  the  Ldpoa 
cceliatii^  described  both  by  Gould  (quoting  from  Sir  George  Grey) 
and  Broinowski,  is  classified  as  a  pure  mound-builder— in  some 
respects  a  truer  and  more  systematic  niound-builder  than  any  other — 
yet  it  does  differ  materially  from  the  other  megapods,  so  far  as  we 
can  learn,  in  the  form  of  its  eggs,  its  systematic  way  of  placing  them 
in  the  heap,  thin  end  downwards,  and  in  other  points.  Still  more 
important  and  still  more  confusing,  we  find  that  the  Mallee-hens,  \-ery 
carefully  described  by  the  Hon.  D.  W.  Carnegie  in  *'  Spinifex  and 
Sai»d,"  are  classed  &i  Leipoa  oceiiala,  uith  no  proper  record  anywhere 
else  that  we  know  of  their  most  distinguishing  peculiarities.  The 
Mallec-hens*  nests  are  thus  described  by  Mr.  Camcgte  : 

"  These  nests  arc  hollowed  out  in  the  sand  to  a  depth  of  perhaps 
two  and  a  half  feet,  conical  sliapcd,  with  a  mouth  some  ^ihree  feet 
in  diameter;  the  sand  from  the  centre  is  scraped  up  into'a  ring  round 
ihc  mouth.  Several  birds  help  in  this  operation,  and  when  finished 
lay  their  eggs  on  a  layer  of  leaves  at  the  bottom  ;  they  then  filfin  the 
hole  to  tlie  surface  with  small  twigs  and  more  leaves.  Presumably 
the  eggs  arc  hatched  by  .ipontanoous  henl,  the  green  [twigs  and 
IcavLS  producing  a  slightly  moist  warmth,  similar  to  tliatjof  the  bird's 
feathers.  I  have  seen  numbers  of  these  nesl^  never  with  eggs  in, 
but  often  with  the  shells  from  recently-hatched , birds  lying  obout, 
How  the  little  ones  force  their  way  through  the  sticks  I  do  not 


I 


I 


Mound- Making  Birds, 


237 


understand,  bat  Warri  (a  native)  and  many  others  who  have  found 
the  eggs  assure  me  that  ihey  do  sa"  * 

In  reply  to  a  letter  of  mine  asking  more  particularly  about  the 
habits  of  these  birds,  Mr.  Carnegie  was  so  kind  as  to  write  : 

"  I  never  saw  but  one  mallee-hen,  they  are  extremely  shy.  Their 
ncsls  aic  frequently  met  with  (usually  old  ones)  in  the  interior, 
cither  ID  nutlec  or  mulga  {Acacia  arteura)  scrub,  and  always  take  this 
form; 


fe 


*m4*a, 


yr//hr 


have  no-er  seen  the  inside  material  reach  a  higher  level  than 
the  top  of  the  ring  of  sand  which,  scraped  from  inside,  surrounds 
the  mouth  of  the  hollow  (the  nest),  yet  in  describing  the  habits  of 
the  mound  birds  (as  distinct  from  the  brush  turkey  of  Queensland, 
&c)  Lydckker  says  they  make  a  pyramid- shaped  heap  of  vegetation, 
sticks,  &c,  sometimes  equal  to  several  cardoads.  Can  there  be 
cmoiher  species  of  mound  bird  in  Western  Australia  which  has  been 
wrongly  called  Lctpoa  (KeUata  ?  " 

And  assuredly,  so  far  as  1  can  sec,  Mr.  Carnegie's  query  is  not 
without  warrant  The  birds  described  by  Gould,  Broinowski,  and 
others  under  the  scientific  name  of  Leipoa  ocdhta  are  in  habit, 
particularly  of  nesting  wholly  different  from  these  Mallec-fowls  or 
•'  native  pheasants  "  of  the  central  desert  of  Western  Australia.  Some 
distinguishing  or  differentiating  term  for  cleamp5s  is  most  distinctly 
wanted  to  tell  us  at  once  whether  the  birds  described  as  pure  mound- 
builders  by  Gould  and  Broinowski  arc  meant,  or  the  hole-digging, 
collcclive-laying  or  nesting  birds  of  the  desert,  so  well  described  by 
Mr.Camegie.  In  the  caseof  most  of  the  Australian  mound-builders, 
only  one  pair  of  birds  use  the  mound,  but  with  regard  to  one  variety 
there  is  doubt;  in  some  cases,  it  is  clear  that  they  arc  thus  far 
collective  also.  The  Mallee-bcns,  it  would  appear,  are  uniformly 
collective. 

And  in  another  letter,  in  reply  to  one  of  mine,  Mr.  Carnegie  says  : 

'* There  seems  certainly  some  confusion  about  the  mound  birds  and 

the  Zfx/Jtw— possibly  the  Leipoa  of  the  interior,  being  unable  to  get 

together  sufficient  v^etation  for  its    'incubator,*   has  perforce  to 

'  Spimiftx  and  Sami,  p.  iSi. 


328 


The  Gentleman  s  Magazine* 


make  use  of  the  sand.  You  sec,  having  only  once  seen  the  bird  (I 
could  not  now  describe  it),  and  never  having  found  a  nest  with  eggs 
I  am  unable  to  say  much  with  authority." 

Good  friends  of  mine,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Peggs,  have  kindly  sent  me 
a  copy  of  the  "Guide  to  the  Museum  of  Western  Australia"  at 
Perth,  and  there  I  find  the  Mallee-fowt  (native  pheasant  or  gnou) 
put  down  as  the  only  "  Lcipoa  ocellata  (Old.),"  and  only  representa- 
tive of  the  sub-order,  PcrisUro^oties  of  the  order  GalUn.t,  with  these 
remarks  : 

'•  One  of  the  mound -building  birds,  A  number  of  ihem  associate 
and  scmtcb  out  a  hollow  in  the  ground  from  six  to  eight  inches  deep 
and  two  feet  across.  They  then  collect  leaves  and  other  vegetable 
matter,  in  which  they  lay  eggs  ;  they  next  cover  with  sand,  making 
a  mound  from  two  to  four  feet  high  and  about  twelve  feet  in  diameter. 
The;  heat  arising  from  the  decomposition  of  the  deca}-ing  v^etable 
matter  is  sufficient  to  hatch  the  eggs.  The  young  are  born  fledged 
and  able  to  take  care  of  themselves." 

From  this  account  it  is  clear  that  these  Mallee-hens  of  Western 
Australia  both  dig  a  hole  in  the  sand  and  raise  a  mound  and  are 
collective.  In  some  cases,  however,  as  described  by  Mr.  Carnegie, 
the  birds  in  the  desert,  having  but  little  vegetation  to  fill  up  the  hole, 
do  not  have  material  to  raise  a  mound,  or  scarcely  a  perceptible  one. 

"The  Guide  to  Western  Australian  Museum"  (p.  17)  says: 
"  There  is  a  vast  field  for  observers  who  take  a  delight  in  natural 
history  to  note  the  life-history  of  its  remarkable  fauna.  With  regard 
to  the  birds,  for  instance,  accurate  information  is  required  as  to  their 
breeding  time,  their  nests,  the  number  of  broods  reared  during  the 
season,  their  food,  if  and  when  the>*  migrate,  &c." 

And  to  this  list  should  now  be  added  observation  and  classifica- 
tion of  the  mound  builders  {Leipoa  oaUaia)  and  their  peculiar 
habits — whether  hole-digging,  or  truly  mound  building,  or  something, 
realty  between  the  two  \  and  whether  they  are  solitary  in  pairs  in  the 
mounds  or  collective.  It  is  clear  that  there  are  birds  classed  under 
the  common  desii;nalIon  of  Leipoa  Oiellata  which  come  properly 
under  each  of  llicse  habits  or  tendencies — observation,  distinction, 
and  classification  are  therefore  greatly  needed. 

These  Mallee-hens  are  thus  on  tlie  same  footing  as  the  variety  m 
the  Malay  Archipelago,  which  dig  holes  and  nest  in  them,  and  pro- 
bably from  the  same  cause,  though  we  are  not  so  systematically  told 
about  the  collective  habit  in  that  case. 

I  am  convinced  that  birds  can  judge  the  exact  amount  of  heat 
necessary  to  ensure  incubation ;  that  our  own  dabchick  owes  a  good 


Motad-MmiiMg  Birds.  329 

deal  of  itf  freedom  fioa  aktHig  dan 

deoonnwiug  vepetiUe  Mtia  ctf 

withirtudi  alio  die  C8p  are  o6ai< 

nests  uuoogb  **'^*iV"*  or  * 

will  sic  but  linle  in  Ae 

will  show  not  >  Bute  intmriuu  and  nrfer  oaca  a»  1 

bodies  the  joong  XmdoL,  wfaea  tkcy  can^  fr^oM  iIk  icsce  aanfs  ays. 

Oneproofof  wlMtweha»e«idistobefoaEadi»  AecwBMiBrsrang 

Gilbert  White;  and  anoChcr  oettooifB  :ke  fciSovxsf: 

"  Andrew  Kni^  tdb  of  a  binl  wak^  sanagbc^tSier  9SSC  span 
a  foidng-faoate;  ceased  to  viot  it  dzm;  the  d^,  v^ea  &e  seae  cf 
the  hoose  was  soffioent  to  iauilaae  t&e  ggp^  bwc  aiwyt  geaoRsed  lo 
sit  opon  thecgp  at  nigfat  when  tbe  tesipeaese  c<^:^  avaie  ieS.* 

And  an  this  will  beip  as  the  bcscrtt>  Todenrar^  «5at  n  tr» 
foUow. 


IV. 

So^  in  the  voy  sauume  and  faacca  of  s£ws«  Bb>v:3>i^/£:i&i|( 
birds  we  have  eiidence  that  tbej  v^s*  <o:e  rj^se-lc^^^^  twdt^ 
thoDgb  now  dK7  have  ceased  to  be  «3v  aad  in  t£:«=r  fotS  )»ve 
dereloped  certain  poweis  that  taaiJjz  t&ms  v>  «<x3^  ar^  t^jriyv  earth 
in  a  truly  wondeifbl  manner  for  bcrdi  of  :hc=r  va^  TUk  ima^tm*' 
sized  feet,  iriiidi  are  as  nmscnSar  and  ttPMii  as  tixy  »^  tig,  mx€  of 
course  coouncmoiated  in  the  rtrj  isust  c/  these  moond-tnildcn ; 
it  is  Mega^odU—^bat  is,  of  the  great  ft«t 

Dr.  A.  Rnsid  Wallace  gires  the  folknring  description  of  the 
Megapel  or  moand-mafcerr  of  die  Moloocas  : 

^'TSxt  Megapodims  fbnns  innneme  moonds,  (Men  six  or  eight  feet 
high  and  twenty  or  thirty  feet  in  diameter,  which  they  are  enatrfed  to 
do  wi±  compoiatire  ease  by  means  of  their  large  feet,  with  wbicli 
they  can  giasp  and  throw  badcwards  a  quantity  of  materiat    In  th^ 
centre  of  this  OKmnd,  at  a  depth  of  two  or  three  feet,  the  eggs  an^ 
deposited,  and  are  hatched  by  d>e  gentle  heat  produced  by  the  fer. 
mentation  of  the  v^etable  matter  of  the  mound.    When  I  first  s^i^ 
these  moonds  in  the  Island  of  Lombocic  I  could  hardly  believe  th^ 
they  were  made  by  such  small  birds,  but  I  afterwards  met  with  the^^ 
frequently,  and  have  once  or  twice  come  upon  the  birds  engaged  |^ 
making  them.    They  run  a  few  steps  backwards,  grasping  a  qu^^^ 
Uty  of  looae  material  in  one  foot,  and  throw  it  a  long  way  behi^^ 
them.    When  once  properly  buried  the  eggs  seem  to  be  no  in<>j^ 

vot.  ccxcL    Ma  aoja  A  A 


330 


The  Geniiemans  Magasitu, 


cared  for,  the  young  birds  working  their  way  up  through  the  rubbish, 
and  running  off  at  once  to  the  forest.  They  come  out  of  the  egg 
covered  with  thick  downy  feathers,  and  have  no  tail,  although  the 
wings  arc  fully  developed."  ^ 

In  the  Malay  Archipelago  there  ftrc  allied  species  which  place 
their  eggs  in  holes  in  the  ground,  leaving  thsm  to  be  hatched  by  the 
sun  alone.  Wx,  Darwin's  idea  is  that  it  is  in  no  way  strange  birds 
should  liave  lost  the  instinct  of  incubation  where  the  sun  heat  is  so 
strong ;  and  he  speculates  that  if  such  birds  were  to  stray  into  colder 
regions,  natural  selection  would  favour  those  who  hit  on  choosing  a 
larger  proportion  of  vegetable  matter,  of  which,  of  course,  he  holds 
they  could  know  nothing  of  its  giving  rise  to  fermenting  heat* 

Cuming's  mound  bird  {Megapodim  Cumingi)  is  found  in  Labuan, 
but  is  more  common  on  the  islets  of  Kuruman,  where  its  nests'  are 
met  with  in  mounds  of  earth  three  to  four  feet  En  height  and  twelve 
feet  in  circumference. 

Dr.  Russcl  Wallace  himself  thus  describes  his  discovery  of  the 
new  Me^apodius : 

"  I  was  so  fortunate  as  to  discover  a  new  species  [Megapodius 
Wafhcei),  which  inhabits  Gilolo,  Temate,  and  Bouru— the  hand- 
somest bird  of  the  genus,  being  richly  banded  with  reddish-brown 
on  the  back  and  wings,  and  it  differs  from  the  other  species  in  its 


'  Malay  Arch.  i>.  398. 

>  ThU  U  aDotlicr  insuncc  ia  whidi  Mr.  DarwiD,  lo  gain  twhst  he  lUnks  con- 
sisteiicy  in  his  theory,  surrenders  all  to  thanct.  For  if  these  birds  liave  no  cotloa 
or  knowledge  of  tbe  use  of  fermenting  vegetniion  in  aiding  in  the  halclmtg  of 
^(*5,  what  ia  it  but  chance?  Those  that  merely  hafptrudlo  have  more  vegeta- 
tion than  another  would  surnve,  even  though  id  all  other  liaccuble  tiailA  they 
were  not  the  fittest ;  and  how,  I  would  ask — and  I  venture  to  press  the  qocfticn 
— does  this  tally  with  the  Kcnnng  wondrous  wise  remark  that  it  is  not  to  i-c 
wondered  at  that  these  birds  should  have  given  up  the  unnecessary  work  of  nest- 
building  where  sun  heat  was  so  strong  ?  Here  he  credits  them  (alas !  unfoundedly) 
with  full  knowledge  alike  of  effects  of  sun  heat  and  of  ncst-buttding,  and  with 
Btiiking  the  nice  balance  as  between  them  for  practical  purposes.  Surely  birds 
that  could  do  the  one  could  do  the  other ;  if  they  can  so  exactly  estimate  sun 
beat,  they  also  could  Ciitimate  fermenting  heat  1  But  Darwin  draws  nice  du> 
tincUoni.  And,  besides,  Mr.  Daiwin  and  his  folluwers  have  still  to  answer  the 
question  why  10  many  other  birds,  apparently  with  f]uite  as  good  brains,  continue 
■mid  this  gresLt  son  heat  to  build  :hc  most  elaborate  of  all  nests,  thus  wasting 
alike  ticae,  Ulenl»  and  bbour.  Ttten  if  the  cluunces  of  survival  of  the  fittest  are* 
as  on  his  theory  they  are,  enhanced  by  this  expedient  of  moiting  to  lun  b«d, 
why  is  it  that  the  species  which  have  not  rnoited  to  it  In  prcdiely  tlic  some  cir- 
cumstances Hurvtve  and  itKieasc  even  beyond  the  average  of  these  mound^bnilding 
btnU? 

*  Burbidge,  Tk*  Gaixtm  aftke  Stut,  p.  123. 


Mound-Making  Birds, 


331 


habils.  It  frequents  the  forests  of  the  interior,  but  comes  down  to 
the  sea-beach  to  deposit  its  eggs,  but  instead  of  making  a  mound  or 
merely  scratching  a  hole  to  receive  them,  it  burrows  into  the  sand  to 
a  depth  of  about  three  feet  obliquely  downivards,  and  deposits  its  eggs 
St  the  bottom.  It  then  loosely  covers  up  the  mouth  of  the  hole,  and  is 
said  by  the  natives  to  obliterate  and  di::guise  its  own  footmarks  leading 
to  and  from  the  hole  by  making  many  other  tracts  and  scratches  in  the 
neighbourhood.  It  lays  its  eggs  only  at  night,  and  at  Houru  a  bird 
was  caught  early  one  morning  as  it  was  coming  out  of  its  hole,  in 
which  several  eggs  were  found.  All  these  birds  seem  to  be  semi* 
Docturoa],  for  their  loud  wailing  cries  may  be  constantly  heard  late 
at  night  and  long  before  daybreak  in  the  morning.  The  eggs  are  all 
of  a  Tusty  red  colour,  and  very  Urge  for  the  size  of  the  bird,  being 
generally  tliree  and  three  and  a  quarter  inches  long  by  two  and  two 
and  a  quarter  wide  ;  they  arc  %-cry  good  eating,  and  are  much  sought 
after  by  the  natives."  ^ 

Mr.  A.  O.  Hume  quotes  Mr.  Davison,  who  says  he  has  seen  a 
great  many  mounds  of  the  Mtgiipodius  Nieobariensh  in  Nicobar ; 

"  The  mounds,  composed  of  dried  leaves,  slicks,  &c.,  mbced  with 
earth,  were  small  compared  with  others  near  the  sea-coast,  not  being 
above  three  feet  high  and  about  twelve  or  fourteen  in  circumference; 
those  built  near  the  coast  are  composed  chiefly  of  sand  mixed  with 
rubbish,  and  vary  very  much  in  size,  but  average  about  five  feet 
high  and  thirty  feet  in  circumference;  but  I  have  met  with  one 
exceptionally  large  one  on  the  island  of  Trinkut  which  must  have 
been  at  least  eight  feet  high  and  quite  sixty  feet  in  circumfer- 
ence. .  .  . 

"  Ofl"  this  mound  I  shot  a  mcgapod  which  had  evidently  just 
laid  an  egg.  I  dissected  it,  and  from  a  careful  examination  it  would 
seem  that  the  eggs  are  laid  at  long  intcnals  apart,  for  the  largest  egg 
in  the  ovary  was  only  about  the  size  of  a  brge  pea,  and  the  next  in 
size  about  as  big  as  a  small  pea.  These  mounds  are  also  used  by 
reptiles,  for  out  of  one  I  dug,  besides  the  megapod's  eggs,  about  a 
dozen  eggs  of  some  large  li/iird.  I  made  careful  inquiries  among 
the  natives  about  these  birds,  and  from  them  I  learnt  that  they 
usually  get  four  or  five  eggs  from  a  mound,  but  sometimes  they  get 
OS  many  as  ten  ;  they  all  assert  that  only  one  pair  of  birds  are  con- 
cerned in  the  making  of  a  mound,  and  that  they  only  work  at  night. 
When  newly  made  the  mounds  (so  I  was  informed)  are  small,  but 
are  gradually  enbrged  by  the  birds.  .  .  .  The  eggs  are  usually  buried 
froui  three  and  a  half  to  four  feet  deep,  and  bow  the  young 
1  Ma^Ay  Artk.  p.  39I 

A  Aa 


33* 


The  Gentleman  s  Magazine, 


manage  to  extricate  themselves  seems  a  mysterj*.  .  .  .  The  sarface 
soil  of  the  mounds  only  is  dry;  at  about  a  foot  from  the  surface  the 
sand  feels  slightly  damp  and  cold,  but  as  the  depth  increases  the 
sand  gets  damper  but  at  the  same  time  increases  in  varnith.  ...  It 
appeared  to  me  that  the  birds  6nt  collected  a  heap  of  leaves,  cocoa- 
nuts,  and  other  vegetable  matter,  and  then  scraped  together  sand, 
vtrhich  they  threw  over  the  heap,  this  sand  consisting  mainly  of  finely 
triturated  coral  and  shells.  I  was  told  that  the  birds  scrape  away  the 
covering  sand-layer,  lay  in  new  vegetable  matter,  and  cover  in  again 
with  sand.  I  am  by  no  means  sure  that  only  one  pair  of  birds  use 
the  heap,  and  the  Nicobarese  explained,  as  I  understood,  that  though 
one  pair  begin  the  mound,  they  and  all  their  progeny  keep  on  using 
it  and  adding  to  it  for  years.  .  .  . 

"The  eggs  are  excessively  elongated  ovals,  and  vary  a  good  deal 
in  size  and  shape,  being  more  like  turtles'  eggs  than  birds'.  When 
first  laid  they  arc  of  a  uniform  ruddy  pink,  as  we  know  from  having 
obtained  one  before  the  bird  had  time  even  to  bury  it;  as  the  chicken 
develops  within  the  egg  becomes  a  bufly  stone  colour,  and  when  near 
about  hatching  it  is  a  very  pale  yellowish  brown.  The  whole  colour- 
ing matter  is  contained  in  an  excessively  thin  clialky  flake,  which  is 
easily  scraped  off,  leaving  a  pure  white  chalky  shell  below ;  this  outer 
coat  seems  to  have  a  great  tend